


Act of Mercy

by drop_an_idea_on_a_page



Category: Justified
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 03:43:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 50,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4248036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drop_an_idea_on_a_page/pseuds/drop_an_idea_on_a_page
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Lexington Marshals office adjusts to a new Deputy. Follows after Broken Boy Soldier, picking up that back story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on fanfic.net, reposted here by request. 
> 
> act of mercy (Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms) — In personnel recovery, assistance rendered to evaders by an individual or elements of the local population who sympathize or empathize with the evaders' cause or plight.

* * *

 

He drove out of Glynco and back into the world, the shopping malls, the restaurant strips, the endless choices and decisions about nothing that really mattered, all the trivial shit that wore him down to his angry center. Apartment, furniture, clothes. He'd rather one swift bullet than this slow death by a thousand cuts.

He started to time himself from when he entered the shops until he knew, he just knew he'd better find an exit, an escape route, or things might not go well. Twenty minutes in the department store before he shut down, striding out the door to stare blankly at a tree. He had no reference anymore. A mothering sales clerk steered him to a few quick purchases. He wondered if she recognized it, recognized someone she knew in him. Thanks to her he at least had some clothes for his new job.

He planned time for a stop at Fort Benning on the way through to Kentucky, planned to call up some Ranger buddies, have a beer. But he kept driving north, skittish at the turnoff, skittish about drinking, heading straight up past Macon and Atlanta instead. The driving was soothing and even when it got dark he kept going until he was well into Tennessee, eventually giving in to the fatigue and stopping for a few hours sleep at a roadside motel.

He was anxious to get to Lexington now, anxious to get things started. Then, in Kentucky, he took an exit off the interstate, some exit, and drove the back roads, anxious now _not_ to get to Lexington, anxious about his twenty minute blast fuse, anxious about the bars on the cage of his new freedom, anxious, just anxious.

He wandered around his new apartment without turning on the lights, safe in the dark with no furniture yet, just his sleeping bag, a few boxes, computer, coffee maker. He meant to buy a couch and a bed on Saturday but he couldn't make up his mind and left, slept on the floor again.

Then he was staring at tomorrow. He couldn't make up his mind even to sleep, so he threw on his runners and headed out, treading a familiar route and coming back sweaty and wound up and showering. He finally drifted for a couple hours then the alarm in his head woke him at dawn.

He missed his army uniform, missed the uniform from Glynco, dressed in his new matching clothes, matching each other but not him. He clipped on the holster for his sidearm and backup. He hefted the familiar handgun and felt momentarily grounded, a clear choice this one, bought the week following his discharge. He had felt lost, he remembered, not being allowed to keep his M9 after his release from the military, even after he'd offered to pay for it, vulnerable, turning it in to the clerk, and his rifle. Nobody warned him.

Then he was at the courthouse, early, sitting in the parking lot, desperately pulling at loose strands of confidence, covering the angry center.

Willing himself to talk, he shook hands and moved blindly through the day. He didn't fit in. He was sure they could sense it like a dog senses fear. He tried to be easy, tried to focus. Then a shotgun in his face and finally thinking clearly for the first time in three days…


	2. Chapter 2

 

* * *

 

"Now Art, if he doesn't work out, SOG will happily take him on at Camp Beauregard with the training team. They were chomping at the bit to have him, offered him a position, but he made it clear he wants to be a Deputy Marshal. I had a long talk with him and…"

Here she paused, working up to something. Art knew Cathy well enough to know she wasn't distracted thinking about another task or reading an email, she was lining up her argument. Straightforward and sincere, she was an instant favorite with him during his days at Glynco. An outstanding placement officer, her clear-sighted empathy made her a natural for sliding people into shoes that fit or they could grow into, depending. He trusted her and waited patiently to hear what she had to say.

She started again. "He did very well in the training and I think he deserves a chance. And the fact that he requested Lexington at the beginning… well, honestly, it couldn't have worked out better if I'd manipulated the whole thing. I trust you," she said, unknowingly repeating his thoughts about her. "I trust you to do right by him, and he's from Kentucky so that'll make the adjustment easier."

Art supplied his own pause this time, trying to read the fine print hiding between her words. He wished he were sitting across a table from her instead of on the phone, using his eyes to listen as well as his ears. He was working with a handicap. Best just be blunt, he thought.

"Cathy, what aren't you telling me?" he questioned. " _If he doesn't work out_ is not the usual introduction for a new Deputy. It just doesn't instill confidence."

"I don't want you to be biased."

"I don't want to be blind-sided."

She humphed. He could picture the crinkle across the bridge of her nose that went with it.

"Oh, heck," she exhaled, as close as she would ever come to swearing. "He hasn't even been back a year from his last deployment. The joke is he got on a plane from a base in Afghanistan, landed at Fort Benning and hopped the next available bus to Glynco. Some people here see that as a problem. In fact, just about everyone but me and Tactical. I can't believe I'm on side with them about anything, but…"

"Okay. Why is it a problem?" Art was truly perplexed. "He's been in combat, I assume? So he's calm in a sh…situation. He must have good weapons training. All I see are plusses."

"Art, for most of the soldiers coming back, if they're going to have a reaction to the combat stress, rarely does it show right away. The military now routinely does a second psych assessment six months after the discharge. They've discovered they get a lot more PTSD symptoms starting to pop up then, or even later, sometimes years later."

"Oh." Art was starting to get the picture.

"DOJ was just closing out a hiring announcement and he squeaked his application in. Under the circumstances they requested the long DD214, he agreed, and someone from Tactical got wind of his experience. We got a storm of phone calls and they pushed him through the process and into training."

"But this guy doesn't want to do Tactical?"

"No, he wants to be an investigator. He wants to work with _you_ ," she stated.

"Me?" Art replied, astonished. "Why?"

"You met somewhere and apparently you made an impression on him. He said you're the one that convinced him to try out the Marshals Service. So now he's your problem," she explained happily as if this was all Art's fault. "But do me a favor, if you have any concerns about this young man, call me first. I'll handle it."

"Cathy, you always were too soft," Art teased. "You like him, don't you?"

"You know me, Art. I'm a sucker for lost boys. Just look at my husband."

Art hung up chuckling then suddenly stopped, sat and rehashed the conversation. "Well, hell," he snapped out loud, she had manipulated him. He'd bend over backward to see this Deputy through the probationary period just to keep her faith, and she knew it. _Dammit,_ he cursed to himself, _who's the sucker?_

* * *

"Hi, Mom," Rachel answered her phone, her tone resigned. It was only mid-afternoon, which meant that school wasn't finished, which meant that Nick was in trouble again and her mother was calling to tell her about it.

A long sigh through the earpiece, heavy with disappointments, and Rachel unconsciously started humming a Dinah Washington tune, _A Bad Case of the Blues_. Her mom spoke, "Nick is in trouble again."

"What is it this time?" Rachel asked, closing her eyes and massaging her forehead with a finger and thumb.

"He's been fighting."

"Fighting? Again? Mom, he's only in grade five. How much fighting can you do in grade five?" Rachel was already impatient with the conversation.

"You didn't ask if he was okay," her mother scolded.

Rachel slumped down in her chair and dropped her head back, looking up at the ceiling. _Oh, my God_ , she mouthed. To the phone she said, "Is he okay?"

"He's fine."

"So why are you calling me at the office then?"

"He's been suspended and I can't miss any more work this month. Can you take Monday off?"

"No, Mom. I can't. I've got three cases running just now. You know we're understaffed," she replied.

"Well, what am I supposed to do?" her mother responded. "I can't lose this job."

Rachel caught movement in her periphery and she swung around to investigate. Art was trying to get her attention. She held up a finger, asking for a minute. He nodded and motioned to a chair in his office then made a face at her. She smiled.

"I'll figure something out, Mom. It's okay," she said, glad for the excuse to cut the call short. "I've got to go. Art needs to talk to me. I'll come by after work."

She hung up, grabbed the water bottle on her desk and headed in to see her boss.

Art lifted his eyebrows in sympathy and pouted along with her.

"Your mom?" he asked.

"Is it really that obvious?" Rachel groaned dropping in an undignified heap into a chair. "God, give me patience."

He chuckled. "Is it Nick again?"

"Do you have my phone tapped?"

"Rachel, you've been working for me for so long I know you better than my own daughters." He gave her an appraising look. "Don't you think it's time you put in for a transfer? Your three year probationary period expired four years ago. I could easily get you a good posting. Atlanta? Chicago? Dallas? It'd be a good career move, especially if you want to make it to the next pay grade level, which I know you do. You could have it easy in a year or two somewhere else."

"I appreciate the confidence, but I can't, at least not until Nick is finished school."

Art couldn't decide whether to push it or not. She was his favorite, efficient, dependable, thorough, level-headed, and what she lacked in flair she made up for in courage. He would miss her if she moved on, _when_ she moved on, he corrected. But ultimately it was her choice.

"Well, since you'll be sticking around a little longer I have a job for you. I've got a new Marshal starting on Tuesday, fresh out of Glynco. I'd like to pair him up with you for training," he said, giving her a confident smile.

He didn't get the enthusiastic response he was expecting.

"I can't," she blurted out, prickly and persecuted. "I've got three cases on the go, I'm in court almost every day next week and Mom wants me to take Monday off to look after Nick."

"Okay," he said, hands up and moving, settling the air. "Calm down. Let's see what we can work out."

Rachel sat up a little straighter, tidying her hair, finding the floor interesting. Art ducked his head down, trying to catch her eye and get her to look at him. Finally when he had his face almost on his desk she let out a huff and arched an eyebrow, glared back.

"I think I could count the number of adults in this room on one finger," she snorted, grasping for some dignity.

"Which one?"

She showed him. Art sat back up, smiling and satisfied.

"Bit stressed?" He put the sympathetic face back on but with more sincerity this time. "I know we've been stretched thin here, but I've got another Marshal, an _experienced_ Marshal, transferring in from Dallas Monday to help out. He's only got eighteen months left till retirement and he wants to settle here in Kentucky to be near his daughter. Best part is he thinks I'm doing him a favor taking him in this late in his career. Little does he know."

"Why doesn't he train the new guy?" she offered, hopeful.

"Uh-uh. He'll be fine with the work but he doesn't know the office, the city, the courthouse staff…the best lunch places. He can, however, take one or two of your cases off you," he reassured her. "You keep the Sullivan warrant though. That's your baby. Do you have to be in court Monday?"

Rachel shook her head.

"Fine then. Take Monday off. You've still got personal days left from last year, though I'm not strictly speaking supposed to let you carry them over so don't tell anyone and keep your phone on. You deal with Nick and Tuesday you can start with the new guy."

She still didn't look convinced.

"Rachel, I need you to do this. He's not completely green. He's ex-military, a Ranger with solid combat experience. All you'll have to do is guide him through the Marshal end of things. Why, he can be your personal servant for a few months. Get him doing all the stuff you hate doing."

But Rachel had stopped listening after the phrase 'combat experience.'

"A Ranger?" she spluttered.

Art's phone rang just as she spoke and he picked up, slipping on his glasses and smiling at her encouragingly. If he could have put words to the look on her face they would have left the worst inmates in Big Sandy weeping. He asked the caller to hold a minute, covered the phone with his hand and looked over his rims at her.

"I had a long talk about him with Cathy at Glynco," he explained, sugaring the dose. "She likes him and I know you like Cathy. She says he's good, just a bit mouthy. I'm sure you can handle him. Now go have a relaxing weekend."

"Wouldn't you rather put him with Buckley?" she suggested, naming the biggest Marshal in the office.

Art tilted his head and looked up at the ceiling, like he was seriously considering it.

"Nope," he concluded cheerfully, smiled and waved a dismissal.

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

 

Tuesday mornings weren't Art's favorite, being only marginally better than Mondays and not nearly as promising as Thursdays. And this particular Tuesday was looking particularly grim. There had been trouble with the ovens at the coffee shop and they were out of his favorite muffins, an accident on one of the major roads had forced a detour and, to top it off, Art was annoyed to see someone in his usual parking spot at the courthouse. He pulled in on the opposite side, still early enough to have no trouble finding a place, but now his whole day was shit and he walked to the Marshals' entrance of the building anticipating that the elevators were going to be out of service and probably the coffee machine was going to be broken, too.

Reaching out to open the door, he cast an irritable look back at the truck parked in his spot. A young man was sitting in the driver's seat, his arms crossed on the steering wheel and his head bowed over. Art eyed him suspiciously. He didn't recognize the parking spot thief as any of the usual building staff and his law enforcement instincts kicked in. He became aware of the body language, aware that something was not right in this young man's world, something that plunked him square in the middle of the lot of Lexington's federal courthouse. Art decided to be prudent and investigate.

He lifted his hand to the weapon tucked up in the shoulder holster, gave it a tap for reassurance and started walking slowly toward the truck, eyes narrowed.

The driver lifted his head and unfolded his arms, running his hands roughly over his face before placing them back on the wheel and letting out a breath. Art was almost at the truck when the man looked over, his expression haggard, haunted, no hunted. Harrowed? Art couldn't decide which 'h' word best fit.

He heightened his alert status. The truck window was down, so Art addressed him. "Can I help you, son?"

"Uh, no, no sir, I'm fine," the young man stammered. "I'm early, is all."

He reached over and grabbed a jacket, rolled up the window and stepped out of his truck, locking it.

"I'm your new Deputy," he said uncertainly, his voice rising, questioning his own statement. "Tim Gutterson." He held out a hand.

Art shook it and smiled, relieved. Mystery solved. First day nerves. "Art Mullen," he replied. "But I guess you already knew that."

Tim nodded, a quick motion.

Art made small talk, leading the way inside and up the elevator which, oddly, was working just fine. He asked his new Marshal how the training went and used the time it took the young man to answer to give him a good once over, try to figure out how he knew him.

"Where are you from?" Art asked finally. "Cathy at Glynco, she says we met once."

"Uh," Tim stalled, jamming his hands in his pockets and looking down at the floor.

The action triggered a memory and Art snapped his fingers in recognition, pointing at him, recalling an afternoon in Lexington. "You're the kid with the nasty right hook, from the bar."

"I was hoping you wouldn't remember," Tim sighed. "That wasn't the…I wasn't…" He stopped, wondering how to salvage the introduction.

"Well, I'll be damned," Art swore, grinning. "I figured I'd be assigning you a cell not a desk. Shit, you actually did it. Well, I'll be damned."

Art, oblivious to Tim's discomfort, shook his head in amazement, pleased that someone had actually taken advice from him and followed through on it. In fact, he was blindingly flattered and wouldn't have cared if he'd witnessed this new Deputy murdering kittens before entering the Marshals Service. He mentally patted himself on the back for steering at least one young man clear of trouble during his career. His day brightened and it made up for the muffin disaster and the detour and the loss of his favorite parking spot. He couldn't wait to tell his wife.

The elevator opened on their floor. "Give me a minute to get settled then come on in my office for the welcome-to-Lexington chat."

Art held the door, ushering in his new charge, greeted Rachel, her back to them, and walked straight into his office, leaving her with the new kid. He took off his jacket, hooked it on the tree then stood behind his desk, spying on the bullpen. He suspected Rachel had a motive for being early this morning. She'd made it clear to him Friday that she was not happy with being assigned to do the training. He gave it five minutes before she marched in for another attempt at getting out of it.

Art watched expectantly, hoping to catch her expression when she finally turned and met the new Marshal, and wasn't disappointed by the open-mouthed, stunned look when Tim introduced himself. Art chuckled evilly. It served her right for stereotyping. It was a good lesson.

He quickly looked down and started shuffling papers when she made a bee-line for his door less than three minutes later.

* * *

Rachel, too, had arrived at work early this particular Tuesday, her back already up, ready to face-down her boss. She wanted out of this training assignment. She had stewed about it all weekend and was going to corner Art before the day started and demand he reconsider. There were other Marshals who could better deal with an ex-Army Ranger.

Rachel already had a picture of him in her head. A six-foot, 200 lb, white, chauvinistic, muscle-bound, jaded, gun-loving, arrogant, thrill-seeking, out-of-control, moron. She'd met his type before, on the job and off, and she wanted nothing to do with him.

She made sure to be the first in, knowing that Art would be second. She reached over the computer screen to drop her bag on her desk and picked up the small stack of phone messages left from Monday.

Art waltzed in behind her with a 'Good morning, Rachel'.

She answered without looking around, reading through the notes. She grabbed her mug and turned to the kitchenette to start some coffee, planning on taking Art a cup to soften him. She jumped, surprised, finding herself face-to-face with a young man.

"I'm sorry," he said, taking a quick step back, his hands up in front in the universal sign of nonaggression. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"Can I help you?" Rachel asked stiffly, annoyed at being caught off guard and immediately wary.

"I'm starting work here today," he said nervously. Awkwardly he stuck his hand forward. "Tim Gutterson."

Rachel gaped. He was slight, clean cut, boyish, innocent. They must have sent the wrong man or the wrong file. He started to pull his hand back before she remembered her manners and shook it.

"Deputy Marshal Rachel Brooks." Her eyebrows rose up in disbelief and she punctuated the next line with a snort of dismissal. "You're the Army Ranger?"

His face lost the innocence. He set his mouth in a tight line and cocked his head.

"I thought I was starting a job as a Deputy Marshal," he replied, anger simmering, reacting to her tone with a warning salvo of sarcasm. "But if you've got a Taliban problem in Lexington, I guess I'm your man."

There was the mouth she'd been warned about. Right file, right man; wrong of her to stereotype. Maybe she needed a refresher on her sensitivity training, though she didn't recall them ever touching on the subject of how to be sensitive to the needs of gun-loving white boys. She decided to start right now letting him know his place in the hierarchy.

"If I hear a tribal war cry I'll be sure to call you," she responded coldly then carelessly waved a finger to her right. "You can make yourself comfortable at the next desk over. Get yourself some coffee if you drink it."

He nodded at her and marched over to his work space. She watched him out of the corner of her eye while she pretended to be busy rearranging papers. He stood at a loss, staring at his starkly empty desk then finally did a survey of the room, spotted the kitchenette and walked over to start a fresh pot of coffee. He rolled up his sleeves, exposing a rifle tattoo on his wrist and sealing her opinion of him.

Rachel continued studying him a moment, mouth set, annoyed for the sake of it. She dropped the papers she'd been playing with on her keyboard and, not wasting time knocking, strode into Art's office. She shut the door behind her and started her argument.

"There has got to be someone better suited to train him. I'm not the right person for this job. Seriously, Chief, do you really think it's a good idea pairing me up with an ex-Army Ranger?" She clearly thought Art was insane.

"Uh-huh."

"Have you heard how they train those guys? He's not going to be happy taking orders from me. They don't even allow women in the Rangers."

"Rachel," he soothed, cutting in, "you're exactly the right person. That's why I chose you. I know you won't encourage any attitude from him. And if he gives you any racial bullshit or any sexist bullshit, I'll have him out on his ass before you can say 'I told you so'. I promise. Now, go send him in so I can give him the new Marshal song and dance. I'll make the rounds and show him where the bathroom is and the like and you can have him when I'm through."

"And what exactly do you want me to do with him?" she asked petulantly.

"I don't know why we're worried about _his_ attitude." He gave her an admonishing look and she immediately regretted her tone. "Just let him follow you around today. We can't get him access to the system until the techies are free this afternoon – they're on a nerd retreat – so you'll have to show him all that tomorrow."

Art sat down and started scrolling through his email. Rachel took it that the conversation was over and yanked open the door.

"Oh, I almost forgot," he called her back, passing her a slip of paper. "The locals spotted the license you were looking for and kindly passed on an address. Why don't you take Gutterson with you? The Sullivans have a history of shooting first, cooperating second, and I'll bet your ex-Army Ranger is handy in a gun fight."

" _My_ ex-Army Ranger," she grumped. "I'll bet he's handy, he'll probably start it."

Art made a noise suspiciously like a giggle when she walked out. Rachel stopped just short of stomping her foot when she motioned Tim into Art's office with an impatient gesture and went to pour herself a cup of badly needed caffeine. She took one sip and huffed loudly, knowing instantly that the rest of her week was going to be shit because, dammit, _her_ ex-Army Ranger made a fine pot of coffee.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

 

Art decided to do the new kid a favor by spending longer with him than he normally would, allowing Rachel the morning to settle down. He gave him a complete tour of the courthouse building, managing to avoid an introduction to Judge Reardon by scooting down a back hallway, and included a trip down to the evidence room to say hello to Charlie Weaver. He rounded it out by taking him for lunch with the Marshal transferring in from Dallas.

Dan Shaw, a native Texan, was older than Art but the bureau Chief was happy to have him and his thirty years in the service. The office had been short a Marshal for a while and the experienced extra man would be an asset while they brought the new Deputy up to speed.

The three headed to the local pub and the two older men chatted and exchanged stories while Tim mostly kept quiet and ate. They finally started peppering him with questions about his time with the Rangers and were rewarded for their troubles with a few one word answers and a half dozen shrugs.

"I did a tour in Vietnam," Dan finally said, looking at Tim in sympathy. He spoke in a comfortable Texas drawl, unhurried, easy. "It was hard coming back. I hated answering questions, even good ones, and worse was listening to stupid comments. Took a while to settle down and come to terms with the inanities of civilian life. It all seemed so trite after the insanities of combat life. For quite a time I felt like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin' chairs."

Well over six feet tall, Dan got attention just being in a room, but it was the truth in his words that had Tim riveted.

"It gets better, though, you hear? So hang in there."

Tim wanted to be convinced and nodded.

"What did you do with the Rangers?" Dan asked. "Did you have any specialized training?"

"I was a sniper," Tim replied, still looking at Dan. "Pretty much from the start."

"Sniper school?"

"Army version, first. Got sent to the Marine school later for some extra training. Improved my skills with a .50 cal."

"You must be pretty good, then. What'd they make of you in firearms class at Glynco?" Dan inquired, mischievously glancing at Art.

Tim reverted to shrugging.

Art piped in for him. "Cathy says he was instructing the instructors. They finally set him up as a target 'cause they didn't know what else to do with him."

Tim smiled, pleased by the compliment, fidgeted with his fork.

Art looked thoughtfully at his young Marshal for a moment. "Are you as good with a rifle as Cathy says you are with a handgun?"

"Yessir. Well, actually, better."

"Son," Art said, "you know you don't have to call me 'sir'."

Tim looked up at him blankly. Dan came to his rescue.

"Just call him Chief or Big Chief," he suggested with a wink. "All the bureau chiefs like it. It makes them feel important."

Dan's comment provoked an evil look from Art but it bounced harmlessly off the Texan's too-many-years-in-the-service skin.

"Right, Big Chief?" Dan kept at him.

"Whatever you say, old timer," Art retorted.

"There's the pot calling the kettle black."

Art decided he'd lose this one, so he turned his attention back to Tim. "How would you feel about picking up a rifle again if a situation arose requiring it?"

"I'd be fine with that, sir…Chief."

"Well, alright then," Art said cheerfully, contemplating the new weapon at his disposal. "You may have to submit a monthly cold-bore test or something to satisfy the lawyers. I'll figure that out, get you cleared. The Marshals Service uses a Remington 700. You comfortable on one?"

"Yessir…Chief," Tim amended. "Any chance I could get time at a range with it?"

"We'll make sure you do," Art replied. "I'll put a requisition through for one this afternoon."

"Requisition? You mean a new one?" Tim exclaimed. "No one else will be using it?"

"He looks like the youngest of nine, just being told he's getting a brand new bike all for his own," Dan teased.

Art agreed. "You kind of want to pat him on the head, don't you?"

Tim made a wry face and looked up the ceiling, though he didn't mind the ribbing, not from these two.

"This makes me obscenely happy," Art gloated. "Shit, it'll be nice not to have to call SWAT in all the time, the yahoos."

Dan nodded solemnly. "Whenever I see a tactical squad in action it reminds of something my daddy used to say – _when you're a hammer, all problems look like nails_."

* * *

Rachel was dutiful and took Tim from Art after lunch. Her court date that afternoon had been rescheduled, postponed two weeks at the request of the defense. She was relieved. Court appearances were her least favorite part of the job.

She decided to look into the lead in the Sullivan case, check out the brother's truck and take her ex-Army Ranger on his first outing as a Marshal. If he really were comfortable in a gun fight he should be able to handle it. If not, maybe she'd get lucky and he'd quit. She walked Tim through the bureaucracy of signing out a fleet car then took him downstairs to the garage. He walked to the passenger's side.

"Don't you want to drive?" she asked.

"Whatever you want, ma'am," he responded and started back around to the driver's side.

"I'd like you to stop calling me 'ma'am'," she said coolly.

He pulled up short and looked at her, trying to figure out what his offense was.

"Yessir," he snapped smartly, not sure what else to say.

She ignored the sarcasm and dropped the keys in his hand.

The only communication after that was the exchange of information to get to the address provided by the county Sheriff. Rachel directed Tim to pull over to the side of the road and they sat looking at the house, a permanent trailer, where Sullivan's truck was currently parked. There was a deck built onto one side, large enough for a beer party, extending from the door down to one end, with a railing and three steps up to it from the front. The trailer was a bit isolated and the area well treed and hilly. Tim didn't like the terrain, too many hiding places.

"Who is this guy?" he asked, breaking the silence. Curious about what they were to do next but not wanting to appear too green, he chose a safe question and hoped to get more out of the answer than a name.

"Albert Sullivan," Rachel replied. "A run-of-the-mill scumbag. He's been in and out, trafficking, assault. I'd just like a word with him right now. His brother's the fugitive. He's wanted in Tennessee in connection with a murder, under commission. A meth lab he was operating blew up and killed two of his men."

She recited the details like she was reading the instructions for a new microwave. Tim looked at her, impressed she could be so calm.

"Let's see if anyone's home," she said and opened the car door.

She walked around and came up beside Tim just as he reached to unclip his sidearm and pull it out.

"What are you doing?" she asked, stepping in front of him with her hands on her hips. "Unclip it, but we don't draw unless there's an immediate threat."

Tim slid his Glock back in the holster. Walking up to a house with possible enemy hostiles inside seemed like an immediate threat to him.

They headed across the yard, taking a cautious survey of the surroundings, and climbed the steps to the deck. Rachel knocked and stood back. Tim leaned against the wall of the trailer, trying to look more cavalier than he felt, so that when Sullivan swung the door open he had a good view of them both. It also gave them a good view of the shotgun he held loosely in his right hand.

"I don't give to charity and I ain't religious, so get off my property," he snarled, his tone at odds with the smile he flashed them.

Rachel showed him her badge and smiled back with an equal dose of sincerity. "Albert Sullivan? I'm Deputy Marshal Brooks, this is Deputy Marshal Gutterson. We're not collecting and we're not preaching. We'd like to ask you a few questions if you're willing." She shrugged and added, "Though we'll ask them even if you're not, just down at the station instead of here on your deck."

Sullivan took a couple of menacing steps forward, letting the door swing shut behind him and pulling the shotgun up to get a two-handed grip on it. Rachel and Tim looked like his partners in a strange dance trio, matching his movements to keep a comfortable distance between them. Tim reached for his sidearm again but Rachel put out a warning hand to stop him.

"I don't have to talk to nobody," Sullivan said.

"I just have a couple of questions about your brother, Randy," Rachel responded still calm. "We can get through them now, or I can go spend twenty minutes on my phone in the car and come back with an assault team and a warrant."

Two men appeared from behind the far end of the trailer with weapons aimed up on the porch, a rifle and another shotgun. Tim, facing them, threw a quick quizzical look at Rachel hoping for instructions but she had turned her head toward the new threat and missed the cue.

"Hey boys, look," Sullivan sneered, pulling the shotgun up level, moving it back and forth between the Marshals. "It's an itty bitty Deputy and her little brother. I think they're selling cookies."

Tim fell back on his training and did a quick combat assessment.

"Am I cleared hot?" he demanded.

She gave him a look of incomprehension which he took as a military yes: action first, permission second.

Tim grabbed the shotgun barrel and pushed it straight up, twisting around to pull its owner off-balance, then reversed and threw his weight backwards, knocking the man into the wall of the trailer and freeing the weapon. He spun it back to front pointing the muzzle at Sullivan and took a quick step to the side for better cover.

Only a heartbeat or two had passed and only Rachel reacted, moving fluidly into the new situation. She drew her sidearm with the distraction and backed up a couple of steps beyond Tim, giving herself a better angle on the two men at the corner of the trailer and them a difficult shot past Sullivan.

"Call off your dogs," Tim said slowly, and Rachel heard for the first time the Kentucky in him.

"They'll shoot," Sullivan snarled.

"Really? One's carrying a shotgun, good as useless from there. So better think, how good's your man on the rifle?" Tim questioned. "You trust him aiming past you? 'Cause I can't miss from here."

"Gutterson," Rachel urged cautiously, "I don't think this is the time for a showdown. We'll come back later."

Sullivan had his hands up, surrendering, and his eyes gave away his nervousness. He put an unconvincing sneer in his voice and said, "Better listen to your big sister, kid."

"Do you have a big sister?" Tim asked quietly.

Sullivan nodded.

"Do _you_ do what she tells you?"

Sullivan's eyes widened a little.

"Me neither," Tim threatened. "Last time I'm saying. Call off your dogs."

"Boys," Sullivan called out to his men, "I'm just going to have a…a chat with the Marshals."

"Weapons on the deck and back away. Now!" Rachel ordered.

The men hesitated, clearly feeling they had the upper hand. Tim pressed the muzzle of the shotgun right up on Sullivan's cheek.

"Do as she says," Sullivan squeaked.

* * *

Rachel watched amused as Tim fumbled trying to handcuff the two men beside the trailer. He finally used one pair and passed the cuffs through a post on the deck railing, hoping it was less flimsy than it looked. He eyed them threateningly as Rachel marched Sullivan over to the car. After seating him in the back, she called the local Sheriff for assistance, closed the car door and turned to Tim.

"What was that all about?" she asked quietly, annoyed that he'd blatantly disregarded her orders. "I asked you to stand down."

"It was a situation," he said uncertainly, falling back on the time-worn sergeant's reasoning, only without the expletives.

"It was a situation?" she repeated, disapproving. She hooked her hands on her hips. "Most of the time, they're going to think twice before shooting a law enforcement officer. The consequences for them are huge. I'm not suggesting they won't ever, but usually you can talk your way out of a standoff and there's less chance that someone gets hurt."

Tim wasn't sure he could get used to that thinking. He ran a hand through his hair, messing it, making him look even more uncertain and impossibly young. "Okay," he stated, backing down.

His demeanor disarmed her as effectively as he'd disarmed Sullivan. She was expecting an argument. "Nice move," she added, a little uncertain herself. "It's just not how I like to handle things."

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

 

Art stood in the bullpen watching the goings-on in the conference room, Rachel sitting across from Albert Sullivan, Tim leaning against the wall behind her. Art suspected that the look on Tim's face was the result of an attempt to concentrate through the fatigue of a first day on the job, but it came across as bored and a little dangerous, and Sullivan kept glancing at him nervously. The bureau chief sniggered, contented. There was an eagerness about Tim that outlived the edgy and awkward first impression. Art was happy with his new Marshal and predicted he would do fine.

Sullivan however was another story. Rachel was obviously getting no cooperation from him. Eventually she got up, caught Art's eye and motioned him into his office. He took the flipping of the hierarchy in stride, followed her and closed the door.

"By the look on your face, I'm guessing that Albert hasn't changed much since the last time we had him in here for a talk," he stated.

"You guessed right," she said tersely. "I think I'll keep him overnight and try again in the morning."

"On what charge?" Art inquired.

"Threatening a federal officer," Rachel replied. "Two, actually."

"I always liked that one. It's so useful," Art mused. "And how was your ex-Army Ranger on his first field trip?"

" _My_ ex-Army Ranger," she snipped back, "was, I admit, handy in a gun fight."

"Oh? You obviously had a situation." The chief put on a serious face. "Everything okay?"

"We handled it."

Art tucked his chin a little and tried to see what Rachel had stacked behind the word 'handled'. He fell back on a favorite line of interrogation, one he used when he knew there was more to something than he was being told. "Uh-huh," he said suspiciously and waited.

She pressed her lips together and played with her earring, thinking. " _He_ handled it."

"And are you comfortable with the way he handled it?" Art pressed, admiring her all the more for admitting that.

"Mm-hmm," she affirmed, after a beat.

"Okay." Art moved on. "You get _anything_ out of Sullivan on his brother?"

She shook her head. "I'd like to set up surveillance on him. I'm pretty certain he knows where Randy is."

"Let's do it. After you talk to him in the morning, shake him loose and we'll see what rolls out with him."

* * *

Rachel decided to shake Tim loose when she was finished with Art. It was after five. She was tired, so she figured he must be, too.

Tim stepped outside and took a deep breath. He had survived the day. It was how he'd lived his life since he was eighteen and left Kentucky to join the military, and probably long before then even if he cared to think about it. Surviving the day. It was all he expected. He needed groceries and he still needed a bed but what he needed more right now was to go for a run. The restrained tension was tearing at the walls of his patience. He got in his truck, drove to his apartment, changed and hit the road, keeping a good pace. Trying not to think about anything, he ran for an hour straight then stretched out on the floor in his empty living room to cool down and fell asleep.

He awoke six hours later in the dark, stiff and cold and hungry. It took him a few minutes to remember where he was. He crawled over and into his sleeping bag and slept again till dawn.

* * *

Tim was first in the next morning, having opened a breakfast place and eaten a few days' worth of calories; Art was second, happy to have a decent pot of coffee waiting; Rachel, third. She was carrying her breakfast and her bag and had to back through the doors. She stopped abruptly when she spotted Tim and Art talking.

"Morning, Rachel. Are you late?" Art teased, looking at his watch. He grinned over at her, waiting for the unimpressed, raised-eyebrow expression that he enjoyed so much. Instead she looked rattled and he regretted the taunt.

"No," she replied, defensive, setting her muffin and bag down.

She reached over her monitor to turn on her computer and Art smiled at the familiar action, but the familiar ended there. Bemused, he watched her as she walked stiffly back through the double doors and down the hall to the bathroom, tense. Art filed his curiosity away for later and returned to his conversation with Tim.

"Well, unless Sullivan was visited by three ghosts last night, has a miraculous change of heart and coughs up his brother's location, it'll be trial by fire for you starting this afternoon."

Tim looked up at Art, questioning and nervous.

"Rachel wants to sit surveillance on him. You'll be tethered to a van for hours without end, watching hillbillies in a trailer, like a bad reality TV show," Art warned in a horror-story campfire voice. "No fresh air, cramped, driven half-mad by the boredom. It's a nightmare. Are you sure you're up to it?"

"Yessir," Tim replied, a grin threatening. He wondered which side of the surveillance would be the bad reality TV show that Art referred to.

"Surveillance duty has broken better men than you," Art stated, his eyes wide. "Left them weeping and trembling, ready to sell their mothers for an hour on the outside."

Sitting back in his chair, Tim cocked his head, comfortable with a good ribbing. "Are there padded seats in that van?"

Art considered the question. "Pretty sure."

"Place for a coffee cup?"

Art shrugged. "Yeah."

"And it's heated?"

Art nodded.

"Do I get meal breaks?"

"Uh-huh."

"Pee breaks?"

Art made a face. "That's a given."

"Hooah. Sounds like a rainy day on leave," Tim said blandly. "Bring it on."

Art chuckled uneasily as he walked back over for a second cup of coffee, undecided if his new Deputy were serious, joking or maybe just a bit off. Art could handle any one of the three, but it would be nice to know for sure which.

* * *

After a short and unproductive one-sided conversation with Albert Sullivan, Rachel and Tim drove him back to his trailer. It was an unnecessary courtesy, but they wanted to get another look at the property and the surrounding area. Albert gloated incessantly in the car, insinuating that they'd been ordered to chauffeur him home as punishment for undue harassment.

Rachel sighed, suffering the ranting in silence.

Tim pulled over at the end of the drive and, hoping to forestall any further verbal abuse, turned to their passenger and spewed nonsense at him, a trick he'd learned when dealing with meddling officers in the army.

"The US Marshals Service recognizes the inconvenience to you in this matter and would like to express its appreciation for your time and cooperation. Furthermore, in the hope of future good…"

Albert slammed the door and walked up to his trailer.

"What an asshole," Tim said flatly, forgetting who was sitting in the passenger seat. He tensed and looked over at Rachel sheepishly, expecting a dressing down.

She just let out a breath and commented despondently, "Welcome to my world."

Tim relaxed and peered past her to the trailer, swept his gaze to the empty land on either side and across the road. "How are we going to park a van here without them getting suspicious?"

"We're not," Rachel said, discouraged, ahead of him in recognizing the problem.

For Tim, though, the problem had an easy solution. He thought longingly about padded seats and heating then made the suggestion. "Listen, this is what I do…did, I mean, in the Rangers. I watched targets. I'm good at it. I've got lots of experience." He paused and wiped a hand across his lips. "I don't mind setting up in the forest to keep an eye on the place if it'll get you your man."

"I appreciate the offer," she said, staring down the road, "but it'd have to be 24-hour surveillance to work, possibly for a few days."

Tim shrugged. "Not a problem, as long as someone can spell me for a bit of sleep if it goes long."

Rachel looked at him, trying to gauge if he were sincere. The Lexington Bureau had been experiencing a dry spell and every Marshal in the office had stated superstitiously how just one arrest, one cleared warrant, might bring an end to the drought. She wanted badly to bring Randy Sullivan in and not just to ease the feeling of bad luck in the bullpen. There were other incentives. It was suspected that Randy was part of a child pornography ring that was busted the previous year, but there was no evidence tying him to the others, no charges and no arrest. Getting him for murder would have to do. She decided to put Tim's idea past Art and see how he felt about setting up the new guy on his own to do surveillance.

She motioned up the road. "Let's go for a drive, knock on some doors in the area."

"What for?"

"See if anyone looks Marshal-friendly," she answered, leaving Tim still wondering.

* * *

Tim didn't have to wonder long. The next house on the road belonged to an older couple who disapproved of everything going on at the trailer. Tim sat in a tight coil at their kitchen table, his leg jumping, shooting glances at Rachel who nodded her head sympathetically and patiently at every complaint in their very long list. She commiserated, understood their concerns, encouraged, and was eventually rewarded with an offer to use their house as a jumping off point for the Marshals' surveillance.

They went back to Art with a plan. He heard it out, thinking Rachel must be pretty desperate to suggest it. It was clear in her movements and her expression that she didn't trust her trainee and he couldn't logically explain it.

"I'm going to pretend you're not here for a minute," Art said pointing to Tim who was leaning on the doorframe, physically removed from the inner circle. He turned back to Rachel. "I know you want this collar but it's only his second day. Are you really comfortable with this?"

Rachel made a move to look at her ex-Army Ranger but stopped just shy of turning her head and slid her eyes only in his direction. She hesitated. Art noted it all.

"Sir." Tim paused and closed his eyes. "I mean, Chief, why _not_ let me do it? I've done reconnaissance like this a hundred times, with less cover and more risk. I'm completely comfortable with it." He dropped his head, rubbed the back of his neck and said to his feet, "It's the one thing I am comfortable with this week."

"We're pretending you're not here, remember?" Art chastised, but he also listened. He wagged his head and puffed. He, too, wanted this arrest. "Fine. Let's go with it. But get a good map from the county office with any recent surveys, if one exists. I don't want this blown because we were on the wrong side of a property line. When are you two going to set up?"

"Right now," Rachel answered.

He pointed a finger at Tim a second time. "If there's anything you're unsure about then just…don't."

"Yessir."

"Okay, then. You know how to reach me if you need something."


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

The weather was pretty average for a February in Kentucky, cold, wet, but not freezing. Tim was grateful for his sleeping bag, a dry pair of wool socks, and a thermos of coffee, and especially grateful for the quiet woods. He was as comfortable as he could be outside in the winter. He saved his pity for Rachel.

Dan Shaw had dropped them at the Marshal-friendly neighbors in the evening to avoid leaving any strange vehicles in the driveway for prying eyes. After a half hour listening to the husband and wife bicker Tim had grabbed his supplies and bee-lined it for the forest leaving Rachel and her patience alone with her hosts. It started to drizzle lightly an hour later, a degree or two lower and it might have turned to sleet, but still Tim wouldn't have traded places with her. He hunkered down under a tarp and did what he did best, he watched and waited.

All the next day the three men, Albert Sullivan and his two gun thugs, took turns sitting on the porch, trying to look casual but only managing to be conspicuous in early February. They were watching for a hint of the Marshals unaware that the Marshals were already entrenched and watching for a glimpse of Randy Sullivan. The following evening, close to 11pm, Tim's attention was drawn to movement in the back. Albert Sullivan left the trailer and stepped into the woods carrying a flashlight and a knapsack. Tim relayed the information to Rachel.

"Maybe he's taking supplies to Randy," she suggested.

"Only one way to know," Tim whispered back.

He wiggled out of his sleeping bag and tailed him. It hadn't stopped raining until late in the afternoon and the wet forest muffled his footsteps making it easy for him to follow unheard parallel with his prey. After half an hour of trudging a well-worn path of soggy leaves Albert approached a small, rough hunting shack in the woods. They were upwind from it, its sounds and smells not reaching them until they were closer. Then Tim caught a whiff of firewood burning from a stove. He crouched down when Albert whistled and the door opened a crack, then wide, flooding the area in front with light.

Randy Sullivan stood fully visible in the doorway and smiled for his brother. "What took you so long? Shit, we ran out of toilet paper."

"The Marshals are sniffing around," Albert replied in a hushed voice, passing over the pack. "I spent a night in lock-up because of you. Look, Randy, I know you're family and all, but I need you gone."

"Federal Marshals? For real? I feel like I'm in a movie," Randy whooped happily.

"I'm serious Randy," Albert shook his head. "Tomorrow, you hear? You need to be on your way tomorrow. I mean it."

Albert turned and headed back the way he came, leaving Tim to choose between brothers. He decided to stay and keep an eye on Randy. He tried to contact Rachel but he was out of the effective range of the radios. Swearing under his breath, he started back, too, trying every few minutes to get through. When he was more than halfway back he heard Rachel's voice in the earpiece.

"Gutterson? Tim?"

"Right here," he responded.

"Jesus," she exclaimed. He heard the relief. "What happened?"

"Got too far away, dropped the signal," he explained. "I saw Randy. Albert has him hid out in a shack up the hill a ways."

"You saw him?"

"And heard his name. It's definitely him."

There was a moment of silence while she considered their options. "Were you on their property?"

"Likely."

"Shit." The curse came out fast, unguarded. "Do you think you could find a spot to watch from that's not on their property?"

Tim rolled his eyes and huffed impatiently. It reminded him of his days in Paktia, pretending that no one ever went over the border into Pakistan.

"I'll figure it out."

"I'll get Art on a search warrant. Check back in an hour."

What little light was grudgingly donated by the half-moon was gone by the time he got back to his original hiding spot. The clouds converged and it started drizzling again. He grabbed the tarp, a flashlight and his pack and trudged back up the hill, periodically checking his progress against the terrain, the GPS he was carrying, and a surveyor's map. Luckily the shack was, he estimated, close to the property line and he set up well into the neighboring land, allowing himself and the lawyers a good safety margin.

* * *

Art's phone rang and woke him up. It was almost midnight.

"Chief?"

"Rachel."

"Can you get me a search warrant?"

"Now?"

"Now."

"Shit. I'll see what I can do. What have you got for me?"

* * *

Art pulled into the Marshal-friendly neighbors' driveway before dawn with Dan Shaw, two cruisers of men from the local County Sheriff's office and a warrant. Rachel walked out to meet him.

"Has it been raining all night?" Art asked grumpily sloshing through the puddles.

"Pretty much," Rachel answered curtly and proceeded with a report. "Tim got in touch after I called you. Randy isn't the only one up in the shack. He thinks there's one, possibly two men with him."

"Tim? Who's Tim?" Art feigned confusion. "Oh, you mean your ex-Army Ranger."

She gave him her is-this-really-the-time, raised-eyebrow expression. He was happy to see it and got down to business.

"Where's Tim?"

"Up by the shack, out of communication range. It's a ways up the hill. He hasn't seen anyone since I called you but he says he's heard talking. I told him that you were coming with a warrant and he said he'd come down and meet us. You're early," she stated, leading them into the house.

"I'm insanely early. It's not even five o'clock yet," Art muttered.

Tim waded out of the woods ten minutes later and joined the gathering in the kitchen. He stood dripping just inside the back door, creating a muddy puddle, amused by the baleful looks directed his way by the homeowner, hovering. Clearly, she was beginning to regret her offer of helping the Marshals.

Art reconfirmed, "Tim, you're definitely on the neighbor's property?"

"Yessir."

"How do you know?"

"SWAG, sir."

Art scrunched his face. "What?"

"Scientific wild-ass guess," Tim clarified, "with lots of maneuvering room."

"And you can see the door of the shack clearly?"

"Yessir."

"Okay then. Let's go."

They divided into two teams. Tim would lead Rachel and two of the local deputies up to the shack and Art and Dan, with the Sheriff, would take care of approaching the trailer and keeping its occupants busy with the legal bureaucracy of delivering the warrant.

Dan put a hand on Rachel's elbow before they split up and said, "Feeling lucky this morning, Deputy Brooks?"

"I hope you stopped and bought me a lottery ticket on the way here, Deputy Shaw," she replied smoothly, "because today is my day."

Dan grinned down at her, "Go get him, tiger."

Rachel, Tim and the Sheriff's deputies walked silently through the trees. They were just past the halfway point to the shack when the sound of a car alarm ripped through the quiet pre-dawn, stopping them in their tracks. Then a gunshot blew a hole through the sound of the alarm.

"Shotgun," said Tim with a pointed look at Rachel.

"Shit," she exploded. "Move!"

All four sprinted up the hill, no longer bothering with stealth. Tim's obsessive running got him within sight of the shack ahead of the others, in time to see three men stumble out, not clothed for the weather, and take off in different directions. He picked out Randy Sullivan and ran to cut him off first.

Randy had bolted for the door without his boots. His socks slipped on the mat of wet leaves like leather on ice and he went down in a heap with a loud slap. Tim had caught up, was directly on the fugitive's heels and unable to avoid the collision. His legs were taken out from under him by Sullivan's slide on the hill and he landed hard on top of him. The two men wrestled briefly until Tim got a hold, regained his footing then planted a knee on Sullivan's back. Randy had at least fifty pounds on the Marshal and was attempting to throw him off when Rachel came up behind them.

"I've got a gun out and aimed, Sullivan," she called out. "It'd probably be easier for my partner to cuff you if I put a bullet in your leg to settle you down."

Tim had less trouble with the handcuffs this time.

"Leave him with me," Rachel ordered when Tim had hauled Sullivan to his feet. "The Sheriff's men are chasing down the others." She pointed across the hill.

Tim nodded and headed at a run back to the shack then in the direction the other two men had taken. He jogged in a straight line up the hill, stopping abruptly when he saw beams of light coming up the rise about thirty yards to his left. He reached into his pocket for his own flashlight and frowned when his hand found nothing. He crouched down defensively, acutely aware of the dangers of firearms in the dark. He checked his immediate surroundings, looking for cover, seeing only his breath in the cold air. A sudden flashback took him by surprise. He froze, back in a similar night lying flat on a slope, quiet, keeping his head down, listening for the stealthy footsteps of an enemy patrol over the rise, seeing only his breath in the cold air on a moonless night in the mountains of the Hindu Kush.

He squeezed his eyes shut on the image, picked up some wet leaves and focused on that, bringing himself back to Kentucky. He heard movement to his right this time, close, and brought up his arm, pushing his face into the inside of his elbow to deaden the sound of his ragged breathing.

A shape appeared between tree trunks, a man. Tim reached down for his sidearm, unclipping it carefully. A twig snapped loudly under the shadow's foot and the flashlight beams snapped over with it. Tim dropped instinctively before the first shot from the nervous deputies skimmed past and the shadow turned and disappeared. Holding himself flat, he ignored the urge to stand up and give chase or shoot at the retreating figure. He lay still while a few more shots sailed overhead, thinking about the irony of being killed by friendly fire right here in Kentucky. The deputies stopped shooting and started cautiously walking his way and he called out to them.

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

 

Dawn was making a tired and dreary attempt at an entrance; it had started to drizzle again. Despite the successful arrest of Randy Sullivan, the law enforcement troop gathered in front of the trailer felt an opportunity had been missed, dampening everyone's mood more than the weather could. Each of them was wondering about the identity of the two men that got away.

"What happened down here?" Rachel demanded looking at the mosaic of broken glass around Albert Sullivan's truck. "Whatever it was, it almost cost us the arrest."

Art stopped Rachel's indignant tirade with a warning look then brought her into the discussion he was having with the Sheriff. They all agreed that stumbling around in the dark was useless and dangerous. Tim's close call dulled everyone's enthusiasm and the manhunt was postponed, left in the hands of the locals to coordinate. The Sheriff called in a team to dust the shack for prints and extra men to watch the property in case anyone returned. The Sullivans were loaded into a cruiser and Art shook hands all around, thanking everyone for their help. Finally he rounded up his Marshals and led them to his car. Their business was done.

"Rachel," Art said, putting up a hand to halt her questions before she could start, "I promise a full disclosure of the fiasco at the trailer but only when we're all warm and dry, sitting in my favorite diner drinking coffee and eating bacon and eggs. I'm buying breakfast."

Exhaustion seeped in through their clothes with the dampness and they all started to sag. Tim shivered, wet through, shaking violently enough that Art caught it and looked closer, noting the dark circles around his eyes.

"You look like a drug addict," he said, ushering him into the back of his car with a blanket and cranking up the heat. "Cathy will be on my ass if she hears I've been neglecting you and you've caught pneumonia your first week. She'll never trust me with another new Deputy."

Tim learned an important lesson that morning. Art made him repeat it back.

"A Deputy US Marshal always keeps a complete set of clean clothes in his locker," he said dutifully, lulled sleepy and malleable by the warm car.

Dan volunteered to drive him home when they got to Lexington so he could have a quick shower and change before meeting Art and Rachel at the diner. He helped Tim carry his wet gear upstairs, and stood in the middle of the empty apartment, a bemused expression on his face and a twitch to his lip.

"Where do you want me to set this so it won't be in the way?" Dan asked in a sarcastic baritone. "Are you a minimalist or are you keeping the place empty to set up a grow op? Some free advice, I don't think an apartment is a good idea for that sort of thing. Neighbors are kind of close. Wouldn't know from experience, mind. Just a hunch."

Tim made excuses. "Uh, I haven't had time to go buy stuff."

"Two words from a man still paying the bills from his third, soon-to-be ex-wife: _online shopping_." He set down the duffel and the sleeping bag and shook his head. "This is sad."

"Third ex-wife and you think this is sad?" Tim retorted.

"Fair enough," was Dan's laconic reply. Tim didn't press for details.

* * *

Rachel looked up and smiled when Dan and Tim walked in. Dan loped a grin back.

"You look like a teenager with your face all lit up like that," he said. "What have you got to be so happy about at this hour of the morning?"

"I'm dry and I've got a nice hot cup of coffee," she answered smugly, the smile settling comfortably.

"And you got your man," Art added appreciatively. "You two defeated the Jonah. The Lexington Marshals Office is back in business and hallelujah for that. I was beginning to think we'd have to sacrifice some virgins."

"They're probably harder to find than fugitives," Tim said, slow and wry, then a pause. "But maybe that's the point."

He had slouched into the booth beside Rachel and he tilted his head to the side when he spoke. He looked like he was in danger of falling asleep on her shoulder. Art wondered how that would go over.

"Car alarm?" Rachel prompted, reminding him of his promise.

"Oh God, you won't believe what happened," Art sighed. "I didn't want to embarrass the Sheriff, he's a good guy, but honestly…"

The waitress interrupted with coffee and went around the table taking orders. The three senior Marshals fell silent after Tim, last, finished. He handed over the menu then contentedly picked up his mug. He looked over the rim, finally noticed them staring.

"What?"

"Are you really going to eat all that?" Art demanded.

"Uh-huh."

"Okay." Art took a wait and see approach.

Impatient, Rachel prompted a second time. "Car alarm?"

"Right. So, we're holding back till the agreed time," Art started, "and the Sheriff is completely hamming it up, all clandestine, like he's watched too many movies."

"Wearing those ridiculous cowboy boots…" Dan interrupted.

"No doubt he's a Texan," Art quipped.

"A wannabe," Dan corrected. "No self-respecting Texan is going to be caught dead in a pair of boots that ugly."

"Anyway," Art got back on track, "the Sheriff, wearing a ridiculous pair of cowboy boots with leather soles, slips in the mud and stops himself falling face first into a puddle by careening into Albert Sullivan's truck."

"The one with the alarm," Dan clarified. "In case you missed it."

"We heard," Rachel groaned.

"Then," Art sniggered.

"This is the best part," Dan chuckled.

"Albert Sullivan launches himself out the front door in his tighty-whiteys," Art snorted, "and blasts his own truck with a shotgun."

"He shot his own truck?" Tim repeated, aghast. "That was a nice truck."

"Blew the back window right out. I think he was a little jumpy," Art laughed. "Fortunately the Sheriff had gotten out the way and Sullivan only had one round on him. No pockets." A snort. "I tell you, it was quite a scene."

"Hilarious in the telling, but kind of messed up the timing of the bust a little. Sorry," Dan said, chagrined.

"That's okay. Fortunately, Tim's a fast runner," Rachel replied, offering a rare compliment.

Art looked pleased. Tim shrugged it off.

"Randy was trying to make a getaway in socks. I could've been Elmer Fudd and caught him."

"Must be a Sullivan thing, not dressing for the weather." Art started to giggle again. "Lord, Albert in his tighty-whiteys. It's burned into my eyeballs forever." He covered his eyes. "Yep, I can still see it."

They returned to the office to write up the report and close out the warrant. Tim sweated every line with Rachel looking over his shoulder then the two spent the afternoon going over photos of Randy Sullivan's known criminal associates. They drew a blank. There was no match to the face that Tim had seen in the beam of the flashlights.

Art called Tim into his office before the end of the day and handed over a new sniper rifle. They discussed USMS policy on the weapon and Art suggested sarcastically that Tim would have to find someplace other than the indoor police range to practice with it. He wrote down the address of a 500m outdoor rifle range in Lexington and watched, satisfied, as his new Marshal assembled the weapon easily and confidently while they talked.

"Call me if you plan to test drive it on the weekend," Art requested. "I'd like to see what you can do with it."

"Sure thing," Tim replied, distracted.

There was no 'sir' attached to Tim's responses this morning. Art figured they were making progress. He ordered him to go home and enjoy what remained of his Friday, hoping as he watched Tim pack up that he wouldn't regret letting him take the rifle with him. It felt way worse than letting his daughters have the car for the first time when they were of age. He bit his lip as Tim left the office.

* * *

Tim walked out of the courthouse with his new rifle and drove to the range but he didn't call Art. He worried it might seem odd, maybe a little too eager going there straight after and on a Friday. It was still drizzling, scaring away all but the diehards. He had the place to himself. Just the owner appeared, standing in the doorway, watching.

He bought rounds and shot for an hour, zeroing in his new weapon. It cleared his head, the focus and rhythm of shooting, familiar and comfortable. He would've liked to stay longer but ammo wasn't cheap. In the military they'd shoot through thousands of rounds in training, time behind the scope was the only way to improve and the army gave him all the time he could handle. He missed it. For a brief moment he missed it. Then he recalled what drove him to quit and packed up, feeling uneasy again.

"You shoot well," the owner said, frowning as he rang up the total.

"It's a nice rifle," Tim muttered.

"You a hunter?" the man pried.

Tim looked up at him, ready to brush him off until he saw the concern in the man's expression. He thought about his new career and set how he should handle this against how he wanted to handle this. He took out his new star and USMS ID and set it open on the counter while he dug around for a credit card.

"Just keeping it up for work," Tim finally offered. "The rifle belongs to the Marshals Service."

The owner picked up the ID and nodded, relaxing. "Well, you're impressive with it. Have much call to use it?"

Tim shook his head. "Just got it. Ask me in few months."

The owner handed back the ID. "They're pretty good now, straight from the factory."

"You know of any longer ranges?" Tim asked. "Anything at 800m or more?"

"Not in Lexington. You new here?"

"Yeah, sort of." Tim nodded, smiled stiffly and left.

There was some work he wanted to do on the rifle, little things, but he didn't have the tools and wasn't sure he was allowed to tamper with it. He decided to start looking into gun clubs outside of Lexington, see if he could find someone like-minded and work out an arrangement of sorts. He went back to his apartment and ordered in and browsed the internet for ranges over 500m. He called Art and arranged to meet him at a place the next day then read until he fell asleep.

At 3am he woke in a haze of jumbled images, his heart racing. He suspected he'd been dreaming and didn't want to think about it too long in case he remembered something. There was cold beer in the fridge, the apartment wasn't completely uncivilized, and he opened one and sat on the floor against the wall. Looking around, he decided this was stupid and spent four hours online, shopping for a life. The bed would arrive the following week, and a couch with it, sheets, towels, dishes, a TV, a desk for his computer and a lamp. He grinned when he hit the check-out link, a successful covert operation and a welcome distraction from the uneasy hours in the middle of the night.

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

 

The next week Tim trailed around after Rachel, following on her heels while she did her work, delivering subpoenas, in and out of court, on prison transports, learning and obedient. Dan Shaw took to calling him Rover.

"You've picked up a stray, Deputy Brooks," he teased.

"Actually, he's my hunting dog," she corrected. "You're welcome to borrow him if you'd like."

"I just might."

Tim found he didn't mind the work. It wasn't as exciting as his first week, but the variety kept it interesting and Rachel was diligent about the training. She was also unwaveringly cool toward him, and that was fine. Dan would wander over for a chat when they found themselves in the office together, keeping a watchful eye on him, solicitous, and that was fine, too. Dan was the right kind of interfering.

It was the time away from work that Tim was having trouble with. He could only run so far and his apartment wasn't much of a haven, still empty of furniture. He spent most of his spare time reading, plowing through books from a second hand store down the street. The owner was gruff, a bear in his cave of tomes stacked like stalagmites, but he let Tim explore undisturbed for hours through his inventory.

He stayed out of the bars and kept a sparse supply of beer in his fridge. He'd have one after work while he answered emails, keeping up with army friends. He couldn't stop himself from trawling the veteran news sites hoping not to read a name he recognized. He felt he'd abandoned them and it weighed only as guilt could weigh, heavily, belying gravity.

Thursday morning Rachel informed him that they'd pulled a finger print at the shack with a name attached to it, Stephen Price. The face that popped up on the database was not the one Tim had seen, still, Price was on several federal warrants and the case dropped back into Rachel's lap.

"What's a Tennessee meth cooker doing with a guy from Seattle wanted for white-collar crime?" Rachel asked her computer screen.

It couldn't answer and neither could Tim, leaning over her shoulder. She directed her hunting dog to pull everything he could get his paws on relating to Randy Sullivan or Stephen Price, looking for a link. He had it all arranged in organized stacks on the floor around his desk.

"Looks like your digging for a bone." Dan Shaw smirked, eyeing the piles on his way from Art's office.

Tim growled.

"Careful, he bites," Rachel warned sweetly.

Tim got up, grabbed his mug and stretched, stepping around the papers and over to the kitchenette for a refill.

"Hey, Gutterson."

As he was pouring, one of the techies and another Marshal cornered him by the counter. He looked up.

"Rumor has it you were in Afghanistan," one stated.

Tim didn't respond, turned and leaned against the counter, concentrating on his coffee. Dan looked over from his desk. Rachel had her head in a file but her ears twitched.

"You see much action?"

Tim eyed them warily, licked his lips.

"I've heard most guys never get close to any fighting," the second added, trying to draw him out.

Tim considered grabbing at the excuse and offering up a lie, stood teetering between digging into fresh wounds to satisfy idle curiosity or throwing himself into a deceitful web the maintenance of which would wear him thin. He licked his lips again and stared into his mug, frozen by doubt.

"Gutterson," Dan called, standing up from his desk and grabbing his jacket. "I could use some backup this morning. Feel like getting out of the office?" He turned to Rachel. "Brooks, can I borrow Rover for an hour or so?"

Rachel had stopped reading and was watching, curious. Dan caught her eye and hoped for some backup from her, too. She gave him a smile, complicity rounding out the corners.

"He hasn't had his walk this morning, Deputy Shaw. I'm sure he needs the exercise."

He smiled back, respecting her more, whistled to Tim and slapped his leg, "C'mon boy."

Tim squeezed between his coworkers, leaned over his computer to hook his jacket off his chair and followed Dan out the door.

"Thanks," Tim said when they were out in the hall. He realized he was still holding his mug and felt foolish about it.

"Don't thank me yet. I forgot to bring your treats, though I bet I could stretch out this dangerous mission to cover the noon hour."

"Ruff," Tim replied.

He dumped his coffee in the parking lot and dropped the mug on the floor of the back seat. Dan drove them out of Lexington to the next county to talk to the ex-girlfriend of an ex-con about a case and then they went for lunch.

"Good thing you had me along. She must've weighed, what, 90lbs? Though the ink might've put her over a hundred. Definitely needed backup on that one."

Dan wasn't listening. He was thinking and spoke his mind. "Gutterson, there's nothing in your job description that says you have to answer questions about your time in Afghanistan, but be prepared for it. Don't lie or give in to shut them up. Just tell them you don't want to talk about it. The less you say, the happier they'll be. It'll give them something to gossip about around the water cooler on slow days."

Tim played with his fork, staring down at the table then said, "I've got some furniture being delivered Saturday."

Dan barked out a laugh.

* * *

"You didn't mention before that Randy Sullivan was into this shit," Tim said quietly.

He tossed the file he was looking through open onto Rachel's desk. She glanced at the photos on top, reached over, closed it and sighed.

"It was never proven. And besides, we chase down federal fugitives. It's not as if we get to pick and chose which ones we'd like to handle. So what difference does it make?"

"If I'd known, I could have shot him by accident."

She looked up sharply, casting around his features, hoping to catch a jest. He pulled over a chair and sat down, handing her another file open at a police report.

"They found similar photos on Price's computer when he was indicted a few years back for internet fraud," Tim explained what she was looking at. "He managed to convince the grand jury that the photos were placed there without his knowledge by a disgruntled victim of the fraud and those charges were dropped. He got a slap on the wrist for the rest."

"It wouldn't be the first time an attempt was made to defame someone that way," Rachel commented, cautious about assigning guilt. "Apparently it's not hard to do and he certainly would have had enemies if he committed fraud."

"Hell of a coincidence," Tim stated.

Rachel nodded, acknowledging the connection. She watched Tim rubbing his hands uneasily on his pants, his leg jumping.

"Something you want to say, Gutterson?"

He sat quietly for a good while, fidgeting. She turned back to the work she was doing not feeling at all inclined to be patient with his indecision. She wasn't sure she wanted to hear it anyway.

"I had to sit on a target once." It broke out of him. "There was this boy, delivering packages every afternoon. I watched him rape that poor kid two days in a row."

Tim stopped the story abruptly, the tone in the last word rising, suggesting there was more to it. He ran a hand over his mouth, looked at the floor.

There _was_ more to it. He was wide open. Rachel stared, waiting for the rest. But his face fell then closed and he turned away from her, reading his past somewhere across the room. He stood up abruptly and picked up the files.

"Would you think it a waste of my time if I started scanning through the sex offenders' database?" he asked.

"Looking for a face?" She searched his.

He nodded, shut tight again.

"I wouldn't think it a waste of time," she said, approving.

He sat back at his desk, punctuating his frustration on the keyboard while he called up the federal database.

He wanted to tell her the rest, wanted to tell her the ending but he couldn't. He couldn't get there from here. Here and there were completely incompatible, dissociated. He couldn't tell her that when he finally got the green light, he'd already taken the shot. It was the third day and he was sick with it. Pete, his buddy, lay quietly beside him in the hide. The unexpected sound of the rifle firing shocked Pete out of his lethargy, left him stunned. He looked at Tim, communicating silently his understanding and approval, his complicity. Then eventually necessity nudged and he pushed Tim to break down and clear out. They got the go ahead a few hours later, sitting eating rations, hidden a few miles away from the village waiting for the exfil. Neither of them ever spoke of it.

But Tim had a satisfying memory, and this is what he wanted to share with her, a clear series of snapshots through the crosshairs of the boy standing transfixed, staring at the ruined man, and then looking around, nervous, practical, poor, grabbing the money on the table and the sack of rice and running out the door. That boy never had to go back.

_Don't ever start talking._ Tim could hear a friend's warning, advice given out before he went home for good. _It always leads to something you don't want to talk about or something you can't talk about._


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

 

"Did you get attacked by a camel spider? A guy at school told me that they eat people alive."

Tim glanced over at the kid in the passenger seat who was looking up expectantly.

"Don't believe everything you watch on YouTube," he responded, wondering how the kid knew about him and Afghanistan.

The kid was still looking at him, said disappointed, "I bet you never saw one."

It was a sneering, utter dismissal and Tim gripped the steering wheel hard, explosively angry. He glared over at his passenger, all 4'8" and eighty pounds of him, and gave himself a mental dressing down. The kid was what? Ten years old? _What is your fucking problem, Gutterson?_ He took a deep breath and loosened his hands.

"They _are_ arachnids, but they're more closely related to scorpions than spiders. Did you know that?" he offered, tamping down his temper and tempting his audience.

His audience snorted and pulled out his IPod.

"I saw a few of them," Tim finally admitted.

The kid paused, earbuds poised for ignoring the world.

"The biggest one I saw was about the size of my hand," Tim continued, stretching out his fingers to demonstrate, his audience now hooked. "The locals told me it was an unusually large one. Probably a male, 'cause they have the long legs. And no, they don't chase people and eat them."

"But I saw it on YouTube," the kid countered.

"What you saw on YouTube," Tim explained patiently, "was a desert creature trying to get out of the sun. They all do it. They follow you around to stand in your shadow."

"Really?"

He didn't sound disappointed, more curious. Tim appreciated curious.

"Yep, but they will bite. And they are pretty creepy," he admitted, remembering. "Give me a snake any day."

"Did you get bit?" the kid asked eagerly, hopeful.

"Nope, my buddy did, though. He put his hand down on one, didn't see it. He said it stung."

"Huh. Wait'll I tell my friend. He's such a dumbass," he stated smugly to Tim. He shook his head then glanced at the Marshal slyly waiting for a rebuke for the swearing. But this adult obviously didn't have the same rules as the other adults. He continued his rant with growing confidence. "He told me once that Marshals don't carry guns. And I said I know they do 'cause Aunt Rachel has one. Actually, she has _two_. And he said that Marshals aren't as badass as cops." He trailed off, hoping maybe his friend was wrong about that, too. He turned to Tim to get the truth.

" _Aunt_ Rachel? I thought she was your mom," Tim questioned, confused.

"No. My mom's dead," the kid replied tersely. He went quiet.

"So's mine," Tim said, dropping the fact to fill the breach, hoping to get the kid talking again.

"Yeah, well, you're old."

This time it was Tim's turn to snort. "Am not. Besides I was _way_ younger than you when my mom died. And your Aunt Rachel's mom's still alive and she's older than me."

"I guess," the kid said, unconvinced by the logic. "What about your dad?"

"He's dead," Tim responded, as much emotion in the statement as you'd find in a nail clipping.

"Oh." The boy looked at Tim with new eyes, trying to puzzle out what this man's life was and failing. This was his first soldier. He decided to explain his, thinking maybe the man could puzzle it out instead. Something simple and short would be nice. "Mine's in prison."

Tim's eyes widened. This kid was full of surprises. He figured he'd better get the story straight before he opened his mouth again about family. He hit the reset and started at the beginning. "What's your name again?"

"Nick."

"Well, Nick. I'd say your friend's full of shit."

Nick's eyes went wide when he heard Tim curse and he let slip a grin and a giggle. The adults he knew never swore.

"'Cause let me tell you," Tim stated firmly, keeping the conversation away from parents and on safe ground. "Your Aunt Rachel's a Marshal and she's a _badass_."

Tim spent the rest of the drive drawing a picture for the kid, a picture of his aunt that Nick didn't get to see: Rachel with a gun drawn staring down a fugitive, stony-faced in an interview with a convicted murderer, going head-to-head with an AUSA or the local police or a Federal Agent. And Tim, the ex-Army Ranger, the sniper, he was just the back-up, her trainee. Nick was riveted. By the time they pulled into the driveway at his house, Nick had a new picture of his Aunt Rachel, Batman, Lara Croft, Black Widow. His aunt was a certifiable _badass_.

* * *

Court ran late. When she was finally dismissed, Rachel grabbed her bag and headed down the hall to the elevators. Art appeared at her shoulder and grinned ridiculously at her, trying to get her to smile. He'd known her long enough to recognize the frustration brewing under the calm.

"Hey," he greeted her cheerfully. "It's Friday. How about a smile?"

She looked up at him sideways and sighed.

"That good, huh? Well, I've got a new bottle of bourbon in my desk," he offered. "That usually cheers me up or at least settles me down."

"Thanks, but I have to drive, Chief. I'm picking up Nick and I'm already late." She looked at her watch and grimaced. "Really late."

"Now, calm down. Nick's taken care of," Art said hoping to lower her stress level. "I sent Tim to the school to get him and take him home. Your mom called. Nick was done early."

The news didn't calm her down. Her disapproval was tangible. "You what?!"

"I sent your ex-Army Ranger to get Nick," he repeated exaggerating the mouthing of each word. "Your mom cleared it with the school."

The elevator arrived and she almost forgot to get on. Art held the door for her, though by this point he was wondering why he was bothering trying to help at all.

She pulled out her phone and called Nick. He answered right away, cheerful and obviously distracted. Yes, he was at home. Yes, he was fine. _See ya_. He hung up before she could ask more.

"See," Art said with a pout, pretending his feelings were hurt. "He's fine."

"I can't believe you sent Gutterson." She looked up, impatient, watched the floor numbers scroll slowly.

Art huffed, "You don't think your ex-Army Ranger can handle a 10-year-old?"

She didn't answer. The doors opened and she was gone. She collected her things and was running down the stairs before Art even made it to his office.

"You're welcome, Rachel. You have a lovely weekend," he called out to the empty bullpen.

* * *

Rachel walked in the house a half hour later and called urgently from the front hall, "Ma? Is Nick okay?"

Her mom walked out from the kitchen to greet her, wiping her hands on her apron. "Yes, dear. He's playing on the Xbox with Tim."

_Tim?_ Rachel thought, out loud she said, "You mean _Deputy Gutterson_. Why is he even still here?"

The older woman planted her hands on her hips, annoyed. Recognizing the pose, Rachel inwardly cringed. When did she become her mother?

"I mean what I say, and I said _Tim_. What is your problem? You've been complaining about him since before he started at that office. He seems a nice young man. When are you going to get over this prejudice?" her mother scolded. "And it'd better be quick, young lady, because I've invited him to dinner." She spun on her heel and marched back to the kitchen.

Rachel huffed. _Young lady_. She was in her thirties and her mother was still speaking to her like she was a teenager.

She walked into the living room. The sight that greeted her would've been funny if she had allowed it. Nick was bouncing on the couch; Tim was stretched out on the carpet on his back, propped against the same couch, his head bent at an uncomfortable angle and bobbing in time to Nick's energetic movements.

"Boys," she greeted them sarcastically.

She didn't get a response.

"Isn't there some place you'd rather be on a Friday night, Gutterson?"

"Hey," he replied, "don't distract me. I'm getting my ass kicked."

Nick giggled at Tim's choice phrase; Rachel squeezed her eyes shut.

She turned away and headed upstairs to the bedroom her mom kept for her. She spent as much time at the house helping with Nick as she did at her own apartment in town. She flopped angrily on the bed and mentally mopped up the tears that were building, threatening to spill out. It was getting harder to juggle it all.

She never regretted convincing her mom to pack up Nick and join her in Lexington. It took some yelling and pleading, her mother was stubbornly set to stay in Tennessee, but in the end it was the idea that it would do her grandson good to get away from the stigma of a drug-addict father, the pitying looks, that had tipped the balance and won Rachel the argument and the responsibility. She had no regrets. She loved Nick.

Rachel showered and changed and lay back on the bed listening to the squeals and laughter from the living room. She tried to remember the last time she heard Nick laugh like that. She wanted to be angry with her ex-Army Ranger for stealing that laughter away when it should be hers. She closed her eyes, knowing that was childish and desperately selfish. Nick could never be her sister, laughing like she used to just for her.

Thoughts of Shawnee surfaced and brought up with them her mother's remark. _When are you going to get over this prejudice?_

_Just how do I get over it?_ She wanted to ask her mom but then she'd have to explain and she promised she wouldn't tell.

She remembered every second of that evening, hanging around the field late after school with Shawnee, their friends all gone home. She never told anyone about that day, a promise was made and she'd kept it, too late for telling now anyway. Three men in army cammo came at them out of the woods that bordered the field. Rachel was the fighter, so she fought and kicked one of them hard in the nuts, ran away, terrified. She stumbled yelling for help into the neighborhood bordering the small forest. No one heard, no one helped. Shawnee followed her there afterward, crying, hushing her, saying the men had run off. _Don't tell, please, don't tell._ But it was all worse after that, more than just smoking pot, straight downhill for Shawnee, into heroin, into that relationship, into that car and into that night. She should have told.

The tears overran her defenses this time and she cried for Shawnee, again, and for herself. She cried for her mom, for Nick, and a little, too, for her ex-Army Ranger and the look on his face when he told her about that boy.

She came downstairs a while later, comfortable in jeans and a T-shirt. She stood watching the boys and took in the scene differently this time, more detached now, emotions drained away. Tim was still in his office shirt and dress pants, looking like he just got back from Sunday school not the Marshals Office with his baby face and his hair sticking up. The laughter from the two, especially Nick who was doing the ass-kicking, bounced around the house. It felt good and Rachel felt a grin but didn't show it. Her mother walked up beside her.

Rachel let out a breath and with it, "You're right."

Her mother wrapped an arm around her daughter's waist possessively. Rachel was going to get weeks of goodwill out of that one short statement.

"You wouldn't think Tim much older than Nick," her mother commented, smiling.

"Nick doesn't laugh enough," Rachel stated with authority, though she was just realizing it. "Makes him seem older."

"Mm," her mom agreed, distracted and content.

"Tim's just pathetic," Rachel added, finally grinning.

* * *


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

 

Tim had three things planned for his weekend and having dinner with the Brooks family wasn't one of them. He sat nervously trying to remember his table manners, not needing them much before, ever, but what he lacked in refinement he made up for with appetite. He'd never tasted anything so good and slathered the cook with compliments. Rachel's mom beamed happily, fussed, insisted he have seconds. He wanted thirds but thought it might be rude to ask. Maybe she noticed. She waved him back as he was pulling out of the driveway and handed a care package through the window.

"A doggie bag, how appropriate," Rachel called from the doorway, the teasing followed by a sincere enveloping grin.

He drove home content with a full stomach and fell asleep early.

A door slammed down the hall sometime later and he snapped awake reaching for a rifle and grasping at empty air. He sat up, gripped in panic, unarmed. Voices carried from a neighboring apartment, laughter, and he brought his hands to his face and pressed hard, rubbing away imagined threats. He lay back and tried for a half hour to settle his nerves and rein in racing thoughts. Finally giving up, he dressed and headed out to run the dark streets. On the way to the elevator he stopped at the offending door, leaned his forehead against it and took a couple of breaths. He played scenarios through his head, violent retribution for interrupted sleep, and listened to the music pounding from the other side. It isn't even good music, he thought irritably. He pushed off and down the hall, jabbed the elevator button in a one finger attack then took the stairs just to be moving.

It was beautiful and quiet at 3am, pacing in and out of the soft light from the street lamps, alone. His edges were smoothed when he got back, enough to refrain from punching the door of the late night revelers, their apartment now silent when he walked past. His mind was on food as he turned the key in the lock and he thought hungrily about leftovers. He heated the care package from Rachel's mom, sat on his living room floor and enjoyed an early morning feast.

Saturday was spent dealing with the delivery of the contents of an apartment, setting up his bed and furniture and then stretching out on his new couch for what was left of the day, watching TV. Number one on his list of things to do, done. Sunday, early, he tackled the second thing. He grabbed his new rifle and drove out of town to check out a different range from the one he'd tried with Art the previous weekend. He and Art both agreed that range was nice, a pleasant gun club, but nice was not what he had in mind. He picked one farther out to try this Sunday, hoping for fewer tourists, something hardcore. The girl at the house smiled, friendly, and pointed up the rutted lane to a trailer.

"That's the long range office." She punctuated the word 'office' with finger quotes. "Fischer's up there this morning. You can ask him whatever you need. Good luck," she added, leaving Tim to wonder why she'd say that.

He nodded his thanks and drove gingerly up past the potholes and the curious dog, watching the girl in the rearview mirror, the tight jeans, sweeping the porch. He thought about his perfect woman and imagined she'd be working at a gun range. He grinned.

The trailer was unlocked and he walked in. A man, Fischer, Tim supposed, probably in his sixties, had a rifle stripped on the table in front of him and was alternating staring at the pieces and squinting at a manual. Tim stood inside the door watching and waiting to be acknowledged.

The man didn't look up, just snapped, "What?"

"Mr. Fischer?"

"Yeah. What?"

Tim rolled his eyes upward and considered turning around and walking out but the place smelled right, of oil and metal, and felt comfortable, so he decided to stay. He eyed the bristly silver hair and took another tack.

"That looks like one of those 3-D jigsaw puzzles…of an M107," Tim drawled. "Having trouble finding the corner pieces?"

"It's an M82A1, smartass."

"Well, gosh, don't know why I couldn't spot the difference the way you have it so beautifully displayed."

Fischer glanced up finally. "Did Cecily send you up here just to piss me off or is there something I can do for you?"

"Just want to shoot and maybe discuss tools with you, and ammo," Tim replied absently, thinking 'Cecily'.

Fischer stood and stretched a crick out of his back. "What're you shooting?" He was unsuccessful at hiding his annoyance at the interruption, obviously not trying very hard.

"Remington 700."

"What're you shooting at?"

Tim smirked, cocked his head, walked closer. "Today? Whatever targets you've got down range."

The man pressed his lips together, further annoyed. "What distance?" he almost shouted.

"I'll start at 400. Work my way up to 800. See if it'll do more."

Fischer noted Tim's choice of wording: 'see if _it_ will do more' not 'see if _I_ can do more'. He took a closer look at his customer then swept his eyes back over the deconstructed gun montage on his table.

"How did you recognize it was a Barrett?" he asked, more attentive now.

"Seen plenty field-stripped before, though never quite so thoroughly as this." Tim was unsuccessful at hiding the sarcasm, didn't honestly try very hard.

"You military?"

"Ex."

"Sniper?"

"Maybe."

"Well, don't just stand there like a dumbass, then. Help me put this damn thing back together. What are you, stupid?"

Still smirking, Tim walked around the table, took Fischer's chair without asking and dug in. "You're calling me stupid? What the hell did you think you were doing, you blind old man?" he huffed back. "You forget your glasses at home with your personality?"

"What would you know about personality?" Fischer retorted. "You have to be at least eighteen to be allowed one."

He stood back and let Tim get to work. Watching, frowning.

"I'm taking this out to test it when I'm done," Tim stated.

"Over my dead body."

"No problem, asshole. It'd be my pleasure. How do you feel like going out?"

"You've got a surprising amount of personality for a piss-ant, hillbilly punk. You steal it?" Fischer snarled.

"And you've got a surprising amount to say for a dead man," Tim replied calmly. "Keep it up and I'll make it hurt more."

The two men stared at each other for a calculating moment then Fischer nodded, commanding, at the mess of parts. Tim focused back on the task, grinning happily.

Fischer kept quiet but eventually leaned on the chair back, hovering over Tim's shoulder. Even the silence was comedic.

A short time later Tim hoisted the assembled rifle, setting it onto its tripod and carefully sliding the bolt back. Fischer grunted and walked into the back room of the trailer.

"I'll get the ammo," he called over his shoulder. "See if you blow yourself up."

The two became acquainted sitting in the dirt, ignoring the cold, playing all morning, taking turns with Fischer's new toy. They finally broke when they couldn't feel their fingers anymore and headed down to have coffee with Cecily. A successful morning all around.

* * *

The last thing on Tim's list required some steeling of nerves. He paid a visit to his old high school teacher, retired in Lexington. He was nervous knocking on the door but the reception she gave him put him at ease. She clapped her hands together and patted his cheek, delighted to see him grown up, back from Afghanistan and still in one piece.

She was always old to him and the eight years or so since he'd seen her hadn't reversed his opinion, only settled it, but she was still sharp and still carried expectations of him, the one person who did. And he found himself still wanting to live up to those expectations, honored by them even after all his experiences and independence. He told her about his new career while they ate cookies on her porch. She smiled and touched his knee and said how proud she was that he'd gotten into the Marshals Service all on his own. He felt foolishly like a schoolboy back in her classroom.

"Big changes," she said, clearly sensing his uncertainty, the lack of confidence in his choices. "They can be unsettling."

Unsettled was precisely how he felt. He didn't mention that his morning of shooting the shit out of targets with a .50 caliber sniper rifle had left him happier than he'd been in months. He worried what that might reveal about himself, wondered if he'd been rash quitting the military so abruptly after the death of his friend.

"Timothy," she drawled wisely, reading his face. "You've got to give it a fair try now that you've worked so hard to get here. How are you ever going to know if you're on the right path if you've never been off it?"

She was the only one he'd met from his native Wolfe County who'd read any eastern philosophy. He left feeling a little steadier, eyeing the peeling paint on the woodwork, determining right then to pay a debt owing and help her around her house when he could.

He had an undisturbed sleep and woke later than usual. He arrived at work to find Rachel already at her desk, lying in wait.

"What the hell did you tell Nick?" she demanded.


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

 

"And you're sure it's him?" Art asked.

Sometime that morning Tim had jumped out of his seat, grabbed at the photo he'd sent to the printer and marched it victoriously over to Rachel's desk.

"And you're sure it's him?" Rachel had asked, staring at the face.

Tim's confident reply had her now at the receiving end of the same five words forming the same question from Art.

Rachel turned to Tim who was just barely inside Art's office, still feeling like a pretend Marshal, leaning against the door frame, needing support maybe in his new role. _He's always leaning_. Rachel flashed the thought while she framed her reply for Art. The 'always' took her by surprise. Tim hadn't been there three weeks even, yet he was already 'always'.

"Tim says so," she offered her boss finally as assurance, offered it confidently.

Art got up and walked in front of his desk, stood between them, made a face to match the what-the-hell arm motion. " _Tim says so_. That's great. Let's form a posse," he exclaimed sardonically.

Rachel and Tim exchanged a quick glance, solidarity. Art was happy to see it. He reached around and picked up the folder, flicking his eyes down to the photo on top then quickly up again, not wanting to linger there, and handed it back to her.

"He got out just over a year ago; been living quietly in Pensacola. Why would he pop up now in Kentucky?" Art asked, serious again. There was no reply for him. "Any current warrants on him?"

Rachel shook her head.

"Well, we can't really do much with a nighttime identification in a dark forest." Art held up a hand, stopping any defensive retorts. "Look, I'm not saying I don't believe you."

"But…" Rachel prodded.

"But it's nothing we can proceed with. Let's just keep looking for Price since he's on our list, and see who or what else you stumble across on your hunt. I'll make a phone call to Florida." He rubbed his head vigorously, agitated, indicated the folder again. "If Hill does show up in Kentucky, then your ID will have some teeth."

"Chief, if Hill does end up being our third guy," Rachel added, "then it's likely they're setting up another ring right here."

"I don't want to get ahead of ourselves," Art cautioned, "but by all means, spend some time on it. Maybe start with questioning anyone on the registry who's living in the area."

"I'm already compiling a list," she replied.

"Good," he said, leveling a look at her, a pause and a statement asking to be heard unspoken. "I hate this shit."

She nodded, clearly hearing the silence.

Tim followed Rachel back to her desk, stuffed his hands in his pockets as she sat back down at her computer.

"So?" he started and opened his face up in invitation.

"So what?" she prompted.

"Do you two communicate like that all the time?" he asked, motioning toward the Chief's office with his head.

She arched an eyebrow. Tim soldiered on.

"I know I've probably got some hearing loss from too much time with a rifle, but there was definitely more to that conversation than was audible to the human ear."

Rachel pulled her eyes off her screen and slapped them on Tim. "And it's any of your business?"

"No, ma'am," he said flatly, turning away.

Her eyes stayed with him as he moved back to his desk. She glanced at her watch, stood up and followed him.

"Lunch?"

"I'm sorry," he replied, cupping a hand behind his ear, speaking loudly. "Did you say 'hunch'?"

She pressed her lips together, refraining from escalating the sarcasm.

Tim grinned. "Thank you, yes, I'm starving." He stood up quickly and shrugged into his jacket. "I ran out of your mom's leftovers before breakfast on Saturday."

She couldn't decide if he was joking or not. Probably not. He followed her happily to her favorite diner.

"Art was part of a Fugitive Task Force involved in the arrest of a pedophile following a federal operation that busted a larger group running an internet ring," she explained when they were eating, waving a hand and half a sandwich. "Back before he became a bureau chief. They found all kinds of pictures in the guy's apartment. I don't think you can ever get the feel of that off of you."

"No. You can't."

She thought again about the story he had tried to tell her the previous week and didn't doubt that he understood Art's feelings.

"Anyway, Hill was that pedophile and Art was pretty angry for a while when he found out he'd been released last year."

"Oh." Tim nodded, getting it.

"So we've got a meth-cooker from Tennessee, an internet fraudster from Washington State and now this guy, Hill, a reformed pedophile, from Florida," she summarized. "How would they possibly have gotten together in Kentucky?"

"Internet. I keep up with my friends that way. They're scattered all over," Tim replied then added, "…literally, and I mean _all over_ …the world."

"This is when I wish I worked for the FBI," Rachel commented, almost a longing. "Internet is their baby, but it's impossible to get information out of them."

Tim pulled out his phone and started texting.

"Girlfriend?" Rachel teased, trying on a new attitude.

"I haven't been here long enough. Give me a month, will you?" he replied easily.

"Your mom?" she quipped, enjoying it.

"And it's any of your business?" He threw her words back at her then grinned again with a little mischief. "Friend at the FBI, actually. And if you're nicer to me, maybe I'll share whatever I get from him."

"As long as it's not contagious." She was on a roll now.

He shot a full-on glare her way. "I said _nicer_. And wait till you meet him. You'll be wanting to catch it from him personally. All the girls like Neil." He went back to his texting, added, "Now be quiet and let me do this. I don't want my thumbs messing up and accidentally asking him on a date for you. The guy's a sleaze. I'd hate to see you heart-broken."

"I can't imagine you with friends, even sleazy ones," she jabbed, purposely ignoring the threat and interrupting his thumbs.

"Oops, is that your phone number?" He held the display up and squinted at it. "Wouldn't want to slip and hit 'send' now, would I?" He hit send, gave her a slapstick 'O'. "If he shows up at your door Friday night, remember it was your fault."

Rachel smiled. She decided she liked the way things were going with Tim. It was easier, the joking camaraderie, than keeping up the cold front. Despite Art's warning, she found she was enjoying Tim's sarcasm, whipped egg whites to lighten her world-weary days.

After lunch they started making the rounds, one name at a time, one address at a time, showing Price's photo and searching each face for a reaction then holding up the photo of their second man, Quentin Hill, searching again.

Even Tim knew it was a long shot, but neither Price nor Hill had any known connections in the state. They had nowhere else to start, no leads except that both men had last been seen running through the dark in a forest about a forty-five minute drive outside of Lexington, without jackets, on a bone-chilling, damp February night. They trudged into the office later, empty handed.

"They must've had a car parked somewhere nearby that night," Tim suggested.

"Let's check a map tomorrow. Maybe you can drive back down to the Sheriff's office and get a firsthand account of the search," Rachel said. "I'll have another go with Randy Sullivan. But right now, I've got to get home. It's Mom's night out with her girlfriends."

"How's Nick doing?"

"He keeps asking me the craziest things," she answered off-hand.

"Really? Like what?"

"Like, did I really bitch-slap an FBI agent?"

Tim stiffened, raised both hands. "I did not use the word _bitch-slap_."

She ran him through with a look, pinned him to the desk opposite hers with her disapproval and suspicion.

"He wants to know when you're coming back to play Xbox." It was a demand.

Tim shut his eyes, thinking fast. "Uh, Sunday night?" he offered himself hostage for safe passage past her desk.

"Good answer. We'll see you for dinner."

* * *

_Best ribs in Louisville 2 minutes from work. Friday. Asshole doesn't bother to call until he wants something. Fax to follow._

Tim read the text and grinned, sent back: _If I have to drive to Lville just so you can say hi, you're paying._

Art walked over as Tim was finishing.

"Good to see you keeping your thumbs in shape," he remarked, then held up a fax for Tim to see, jabbed a finger at the heading. "Who is Mr. Benjamin Corey and why do we have his phone records and why does it say Federal Bureau of Investigation on top of these phone records and how much trouble am I in if they find this in my office?"

Tim looked up blankly, his grin sliding into neutral.

Art looked back, snapped his fingers with inspiration, pointed at Tim. "Right, you're the _new_ guy. Come on in my office and explain why your name is on this fax, Deputy Gutterson."

Tim looked over to Rachel for help. Art followed his gaze.

"Good idea. Rachel, why don't you join us?"

Tim took his cue from Rachel and sat in one of the chairs facing Art's desk. Art slapped the fax down in front of them.

"So, Tim, do the Rangers have some secret code for getting into the FBI database?"

Tim was still trying to decide if there was a problem here, and hesitated replying.

"How did you get this?" Rachel translated.

"I have a friend who works in the Louisville office."

Art sat back, frowned. "Huh, really?"

Tim nodded.

"Well, Rachel, sorry. I know you've worked hard, but…Tim's now my favorite deputy."

She smiled and picked up the fax and Tim leaned toward her to read it, too.

"Huh," said Rachel, then Tim.

"Huh, what?" asked Art.

Rachel turned the page around and pointed at two phone numbers circled, beside each was a different name, Price and Hill. The phone listing was for a small computer repair company in Lexington, run by a Mr. Benjamin Corey. At the bottom was a handwritten note: _Okay buddy, what do you know that we don't? We're looking at Price. What's with Hill?_

Rachel then tapped a third number, said, "And that's Randy Sutherland's cell. I guess I'll be going back for yet _another_ chat."

"Isn't cooperation wonderful?" Art remarked. "We should do it more often."


	12. Chapter 12

 

* * *

 

Rachel was poised to knock on the door when they heard a shot fired inside. She pounded instead. Tim drew his sidearm.

"Benjamin Corey?" she yelled with authority. "US Marshals. Open up."

Nothing. Rachel pulled her weapon as well and they tried the handle then kicked the door in.

"Mr. Corey?" Rachel called, less certain now with the silence crowding around them.

They heard something, broken, like a wounded animal, and moved through the house carefully looking for the source.

"Jesus," Rachel exclaimed. She raised her weapon at the figure sitting at the table in the kitchen. "Drop your weapon!"

Tim stepped into the room past her and stopped, swore softly. He holstered his gun and moved forward, pulling a revolver out of the man's hand. He looked back at Rachel, her eyes wide, horrified.

"He tried to kill himself," Tim explained matter-of-factly, then turned to help. "Fuck. Stupid bastard. A fucking computer geek; five minutes on the internet and he could have found out how to do it properly. Jesus, buddy, wrong angle. _Wrong angle_."

Tim rifled through the drawers and cupboards while he ranted, found a clean supply of linens and started wrapping them around what was left of a face on the man at the table. The man made a movement to bring up his hands to feel at the damage but Tim stopped him then supported him as he slid boneless off the chair onto the floor, making sounds again like a wounded animal, like he was.

Rachel had lowered her weapon and started breathing again. She pulled out her phone, shakily dialing for an ambulance.

Tim kept talking, calming the frantic motions, knowing the wounds wouldn't kill him, only change him.

Unable to pull her eyes away from the disaster, Rachel watched helplessly while she gave the address, then sank into a chair, dropped her head briefly and methodically holstered her weapon and slid her phone in its case. She took another breath, another, stood stoically and motioned to Tim. "I'm going to check the rest of the house," she said, her voice husky.

She resented and accepted the understanding she caught in his eyes, deliberately turned her back and went into the next room to pull her Marshal mask on where it had slipped and left Tim to tend the wreckage. She couldn't decide what upset her more, the mess that was the man or Tim, the walking cynical encyclopedia of suicide.

She came back shortly, voice steadier, said, "There's a car in the garage." She swallowed and continued. "Same color and model as the one mentioned in the report you got from the Sheriff, the one the neighbor saw behind the Sullivan place."

They heard sirens and both looked relieved. Rachel met the paramedics and led them in, retreated again but with Tim this time to show him the car. The two searched the house, a calmer go around, looking in each room, wanting to be doing something while they waited for the LPD to arrive. When they did, Rachel took back control of herself and the situation, explained why the Marshals were involved, what happened, asked for cooperation, forensics. This wasn't just a suicide attempt, she reiterated continuously, needing them to understand the importance of the house and its contents. Then she stepped out the front door onto the grass and looked at the tree growing in the neighbor's yard, wanted to climb it all the way to the top. Tim was eyeing it, too.

* * *

Rachel offered to speak to the neighbors while the LPD secured the crime scene. She and Tim canvassed the nearest houses showing photos of Price and Hill. Two hours later and a blur of shaking heads and they only established that Mr. Corey was a quiet, considerate neighbor and that without exception everyone on the street was shocked by his suicide attempt. _Thank you for your time. Here's my card. Please call if you think of anything else._

They walked out of another ordinary house on a street of ordinary houses two hours later, in time to watch a car pull up and three men get out.

"Feds," Rachel huffed. "Shit." She crossed her arms angrily. "Is one of them your friend?"

Tim was grinning unrestrained. "Yep."

"Trust me on this. Pretend you don't know him," Rachel advised and marched back over to the scene.

Tim's grin faltered and he followed her. One of the Feds caught sight of the Marshals and all three stopped and turned. Neil, the tallest, flashed an apologetic grin over everyone's heads at Tim then wiped it off quickly, passing his hand across his mouth and looking down at his feet.

"Gentlemen," Rachel greeted, stopping in front of them, "Deputy Marshal Rachel Brooks, Deputy Marshal Gutterson." She waved a hand back at Tim who had caught up in time for the introductions.

"Special Agent Frasier, Agent Rodrigues, Agent Paulsen."

_Curly, Larry and Neil_ , thought Tim.

"Are you in charge here?" Frasier asked Rachel.

"I don't know. You tell me," she replied.

All three agents smiled under Oakleys, only Neil's mouth moving beyond horizontal. Tim struggled with blank, fought hard to stay expressionless.

"The FBI is investigating Benjamin Corey. I understand he was shot?" Frasier continued with his questions, ignoring Rachel's request for clarification of her status.

Rachel allowed it. "We believe the man we found in the house was attempting to kill himself. He's on his way to the hospital."

" _The man?_ Is it Corey?" Frasier looked at Rodrigues, annoyed.

"We can't be positive yet…his face was...," Rachel waved her hand in front of her eyes, "…and he didn't have any ID on him. I don't like to assume, but it probably is him."

"And the scene is secured?"

She waved over to the organized comings and goings at the residence. "Local forensics are doing their thing."

Frasier started giving orders, doing his thing. "We need to clear these people out and get our guys in there, special attention to his computer equipment, get full statements from the Marshals, start talking to the neighbors. Rodrigues, call in some extra help then get to the hospital. Paulsen…"

"I'll talk to the Marshals," Neil interrupted, a question for the senior agent.

"Sure," Frasier concurred. They split up.

Neil led Tim and Rachel down the front walk, back toward the parked cars. When Rodrigues was out of sight around the corner heading to the hospital and Frasier was inside barking at the local law enforcement, Neil grabbed Tim around the neck, hooked him tightly and messed his hair with his free hand.

"I'm glad you made it out," he said cheerfully. "God, it's great to see you. How's your head?"

"Do you mean the concussion or my current mental state having to deal with you again?" Tim snarled, untangling himself. He snagged a glimpse of Rachel while wrestling and wondered if he would regret giving up what he just did. Too late to take it back, he realized, and got on with the reunion.

"I don't like the tie," Tim grimaced, pointing to the grey on grey on grey, tucked behind a grey suit. "FBI camouflage?"

Neil took off the Oakleys and grinned a devil's grin at Rachel while continuing his conversation with his buddy. "I can't believe you went Federal Marshal." He turned back to Tim and punched his arm. "You could have been working with me."

"Marshals are better looking."

"Apparently," Neil conceded and took hold of Rachel's hand for a proper introduction. "Neil Paulsen."

"And smarter," Rachel returned but couldn't help smiling back for Tim's friend, definitely a charming sleaze. "Rachel Brooks."

Neil glanced back over his shoulder at the house, at the LPD and forensics team being escorted out. "Better give me the story," he prodded.

Tim raised his hand to his temple, mimed a gun and a trigger, pulled. "Happened just before we knocked," he concluded. "Nothing else to say, really. We got here in time to mop up."

"You're sure that's what happened?"

Tim nodded, tilted his head and added tiredly, "Hard to forget what it looks like."

Neil examined the blank note pad he had open and waiting for words, like he was forming a tragic story to write there but hadn't and it was only readable yet in his features.

"You were at the base when…" he rolled his hand, hoping Tim would catch the reference. "I heard you were there. I heard you and Crank found him. Is that right?"

Tim nodded again, said, "Humvee." He looked away, focused unseeing on an angry forensics guy who could be mistaken for a distraction.

"Any word?" Neil continued. "How's he doing?"

Tim shrugged like the motion hurt. "I heard he's at a VA hospital in Georgia."

"Yeah," Neil sighed. "Yeah."

A commotion at the door of the house cut any further conversation. LPD and the remainder of the forensics team cleared out like crows from the road when an eighteen-wheeler rushes by, and Frasier was suddenly heading their direction.

"Friday? Still good?" Neil cut in.

"Still good," Tim agreed, catching the urgency. "I'll fill you in then."

"It's great to see you back in the world, buddy," Neil added quickly, running out of time.

Frasier stopped at the grouping and crossed his arms over his chest. "Well?"

"Nothing new to add," Neil summarized, Oakleys back in place.

"He must've seen us pull up," Rachel concluded. "The shot went off before we even knocked. No sign of a struggle."

"At least not an outward one," Tim said wryly.

"What were you doing here?" Frasier demanded. "There is no reason for the Marshals to be interested in this man."

Tim and Neil mirrored a look of guilt and panic but fortunately Frasier had his angry energy focused on the senior Marshal and missed the twin confession.

Rachel arched an eyebrow and replied without hesitation, with equanimity, "We had an anonymous tip-off about a car that we're looking for in connection with a federal fugitive. It's parked in the garage." Rachel tipped a pen in the direction of the house. "That means that Corey was aiding our fugitive and that puts him squarely in the realm of reasons-for-the-Marshals-to-be-interested."

"Who's your fugitive?" Frasier asked, spot testing.

"Stephen Price. I believe the warrant was the FBIs making."

Frasier nodded, a little cautious now with this Marshal.

Rachel decided to fish. "And we think there's someone running with him, a Quentin Hill from Florida, known pedophile." She leveled a stare to see if she could detect a squirm, but Frasier looked back, a blank. He didn't know anything. "Hill's not an interest for us unless we find him with Price," she continued, "but perhaps the FBI might like to see if his prints show up in the car?"

Frasier balked at being told how to do his job, stiffened. "We'll let you know if we run across anything related to your case."

Rachel remembered whose side she was on and the purposefulness returned in time to keep her from losing it with him. She closed her notebook and looked again at the tree.

"Alright, I guess we're done here." She turned away and headed for the car; Tim followed.

* * *

Art poured. He passed around the bourbon, Dan, Rachel, Tim, himself, raised it in a toast, "A quiet day in the Marshals Service. May we actually have one sometime before I retire."

Everyone took a sip; Tim set his empty on the desk then stared at it. Rachel and Art exchanged a look and Dan chuckled.

"See a ghost today, Gutterson?" Dan asked, indicating the empty glass.

Tim realized his was the only one done to the bottom and looked embarrassed.

Art reached over for the bottle and said, "Oh fine, one more. It's Thursday."

It was on the tip of his tongue to refuse, but Tim let the moment pass, took the seconds on offer and sipped this time.

"I think you did see a ghost today," Rachel commented.

Tim didn't make eye contact.

"That was a pretty quick medical diagnosis, Dr. Gutterson," she kept prying. "Who's Humvee?"

Tim wet his lips, enjoying the bourbon burn that remained. He answered reluctantly, "Big guy, built like a Humvee. Hummed to himself all the time. Tuneless." A ghost of a smile. "Could drive you mental. He, uh, tried to kill himself when he got orders for another deployment. Botched it bad, like the guy today."

Tim took another sip and tried to make light of it. "If he'd had sniper training, he'd have known how to do it. I got some useful skills coming out of that."

Art looked at him funny.

"Explain," said Rachel.

Tim wondered when he'd gotten so gregarious and decided he'd better fix that before it became a problem.

"Army teaches center of mass shots to snipers, just like at Glynco," Tim obliged her. "But they also teach the head shots. You get a good, sort of 3-D mental picture of where the brain is inside the skull so you can take the shot from any angle. You hold a gun to your temple like Corey did and pull..." Tim demonstrated. "And you've got a good chance of just blowing out your cavities – eye sockets, sinuses."

The picture hung in the air.

Art realized he was staring, covered it quickly by polishing off the contents of his glass then reaching again for the bottle, offering it around. It was a day for seconds.

Tim stopped and bought a bottle for his own on the way home. The nightmares were vivid that night and he was happy he had it.


	13. Chapter 13

* * *

 

"The car was wiped clean," Tim relayed the information. "They couldn't lift one print from it. It'd been vacuumed, too."

"Neil?"

"Yeah, he called me last night when he got home. That's all they have so far. He said he'd let me know if anything turned up on the computers."

Rachel was disappointed. They were back to square one unless Benjamin Corey could give them something and considering how he looked when they found him, it might be some time before he was able to talk, if he were even willing.

Art sat with them during the morning. He was more disappointed than Rachel and, uncharacteristically, he was having a hard time hiding it.

"Did you see anything in that house, anything in the reports, anything that might connect him to the other two? Think. Anything?" Art kept at them, working to produce another lead with sheer obstinacy.

"Vintage cars," said Tim, eyes fixed somewhere beyond Art.

Art turned around to look. "What?"

"I was just remembering stuff," Tim explained, waving a hand vaguely. "He had a key chain on a hook in the front hall that was a blue '68 Mustang, a desk calendar with a '70s corvette, a flyer on the kitchen counter with a picture of a Mustang on the front and the words 'Phoenix' and 'vintage', a small model of a Mustang in his bedroom on the dresser, and there was a car cover in the garage, and a large tool chest, and an oil stain on the floor. You could see it under the car. Might just be he changes his own oil. And there were shammies and polish. The DMV had him driving a 2002 Ford Escort. Hardly the kind of car you keep hand-polished and covered."

He stopped when he noticed Art and Rachel staring at him.

"No, please, continue," Art invited, with a look he normally reserved for listening to alien abduction stories as alibis. "This is fascinating."

Tim appealed to Rachel for direction and caught her wearing the same expression as Art. "Anything _else_ you remember?" she queried.

"It's probably not important," he mumbled feeling stupid.

Rachel and Art exchanged a look, more non-verbal communication for Tim to try and interpret.

Art let out a breath and rubbed his head, his thinking motion. "Vintage cars. My brother has a '72 Corvette." He paused, staring out the window at the gray day then said as if he'd just noticed, "It's February."

Tim and Rachel swiveled in their chairs to look out the window, as if they needed to confirm Art's statement by checking the weather. Satisfied that it was definitely February out there, they turned back to see Art with a little glint of eagerness back. He'd caught a scent.

"Rachel, check with the DMV. See if Mr. Corey ever licensed a car just for the summer months, a collectible. Might not show up on a current record."

"Or maybe he just bought one. He'd have to have ownership papers," Rachel suggested.

Art turned to Tim. "Any chance your BFF, the Feeb, would tell us if they have any information on a second car?"

"I'll ask him."

"Say Mr. Corey does have a nice Mustang… where is it? And if we find it, maybe we'll get lucky and find Price with it," Art wished aloud. "Tim, how is it that you can recall all these details? You'd think that maybe seeing someone with a hole in their face might have distracted you a bit."

"Uh, training."

"Training? Not Glynco?" Art reasoned, though he wondered if he'd maybe missed a memo about new investigative techniques being taught.

"No. Military."

Art looked back at Rachel. "Don't you just love one-word answers? They're so illuminating." Back to Tim. "Maybe you could explain the training to me."

"It's not that interesting." Tim brushed it off.

"Tell you what, Tim, you start talking and I promise to stop you if I get bored."

Tim looked at Art, still not getting a good read on his sarcasm. He decided he'd better just start talking.

"Okay. Well, uh, sniper teams, we, uh, go out, sneak around, set up and watch the enemy or an area. Somebody decided the military was missing out on a great opportunity to gather intel, so they started training snipers to do it. During sniper school they'd pile random stuff on a table, give us a minute in the room then quiz us on it, see what we'd remember. By the end of six weeks they'd show us the room early in the morning then wait and quiz us at the end of a 12-hour day of intensive physical and mental training exercises, range time, class time. You got so you had tricks for remembering all the shit, even tired or stressed. You'd look for patterns, do associations. I still do it," he finished, then shrugged. "Can't stop."

Art humphed. "Now see, that was interesting. And it might just possibly be a useful skill for an investigator. I don't know. Rachel, what do you think?"

Tim looked over at Rachel for help.

"Sarcasm," she translated.

"Aimed at me or the skills?" Tim asked.

"At you."

"I guess that makes me feel better."

"What else, Mr. Total Recall? And only the last part was sarcasm," Art qualified for him.

Tim sat back and rubbed his eyes. "Uh, Steinbrenner, Osceola, Roger Dean – written on the wall calendar in his office, open to March."

"Huh," said Art.

"Yeah," Tim nodded, leaning forward again.

"What?" Rachel demanded.

"Florida," Art answered for her. "Stadiums for Major League spring training."

"Near Pensacola?" Rachel asked, perking up.

"No," Art and Tim replied in unison.

"They're all down near Tampa and Orlando," Art explained.

"On the way, though," she suggested, sinking a little.

"Yeah, long shot. But that does mean he was likely planning a trip," Art said, eyebrows up, happy with his conclusion. "Confirms what we already suspected. Not a planned suicide."

All three nodded, bobble-heads, thinking.

"Tim?" Art pulled himself out of his reverie. "What did you do with the intel when you were out there as a sniper? Did you write it up?"

"No," Tim exclaimed. "No, we never wrote anything down. Intelligence officers would get it all in a verbal debrief."

"Including your interpretation?"

Tim looked squarely at Art trying to figure where this line of questioning was going.

"We never interpreted the intel. They didn't want us biasing the information. Supposedly only Army Intelligence was smart enough to do that." Tim rolled his eyes expressively. "For example, I would never say that I saw a Taliban sniper. I'd have to say, I saw a male, black beard, traditional Afghan clothing, armed with a Russian Dragunov. Even then, only if I was absolutely certain it was a Dragunov and I'd have to describe the identifying features."

"Huh." Art looked squarely back at Tim. "Around here, we believe you are intelligent enough to interpret evidence. In fact, it's your job. From now on, you write everything you see in your report and include your interpretation. Got it?"

"Yessir."

"And stop calling me 'sir'," Art finished, exasperated.

"Yessir," Tim replied, head tilt, evil gleam.

Art looked over at Rachel for help.

"Sarcasm," she translated.

* * *

"You're late, slacker."

Fischer greeted Tim when he climbed out of his truck. Like Cecily had told him, her boss was up at the trailer waiting, hoping for a return visit from his favorite customer.

"The only thing you can be late for on a Sunday morning is church," Tim replied.

"What would you know about church?"

"That I'd never see you there."

"Is sarcasm the only language you speak?" Fischer snapped.

"It seems to be the only thing you respond to," Tim retorted. "It's a good thing I'm fluent. And for your information, I was here exactly on time. I got held up at the house talking with Cecily."

"What do you have to talk with Cecily about?" Fischer asked, a suspicion forming. "Don't you go messing with my staff."

"You know, you sound like my boss."

"Oh yeah? Who's your boss?"

"The Federal Government."

Fischer opened the door of the trailer for Tim, stopped and frowned. "I thought you said you were ex-military?"

"I'm a Federal Marshal," Tim supplied.

"Oh. So you must work for Art Mullen."

Tim stopped, turned, aghast. "You know my boss?"

"He comes to see me now and again when he has questions about firearms," Fischer explained. "He was up here last month with the local Sheriff."

"He must be desperate."

"He hired you."

Tim hung his head. "I walked right into that one."

"Yep."

Fischer stomped into the back, disappeared except for the gruffness which managed to linger. It clung, too, to the words he called back to Tim from behind the wall: "What the hell. Date her if you want. She's off to college next month. I'm going have to find someone new anyway. For some reason she doesn't want to work for me for the rest of her life."

"Can't imagine why not," Tim said just quietly enough to suggest that it wasn't for Fischer's ears.

"I heard that. Maybe I won't show you what I got this week."

Tim smiled, knowing better than to show any curiosity. He plunked himself down on the only chair in the trailer and felt right at home.

The gun smells, familiar, wafted into his sub-conscience and memories drifted up. He felt almost melancholy. It had been a year now, a year since he'd stepped foot on an Army base. Neil was the first real contact he'd had since leaving. They met up in Louisville and got shit-faced on Friday night, ending with Tim hanging off Neil's couch asleep, in no condition to drive back to Lexington. Drinking, they hauled out stories from training mostly, back when it was all deep-down, truly funny even if it was nasty, too, at times. Neil reminded Tim what a hard-assed little nugget of insecurities he was then, but so single-minded that he'd dragged a number of them through Ranger training and they'd come out the other side, all of them, laughing hard until their first deployment. Then they laughed hard, too, but less often and more deep-dark, with lots of blanks in between, and a fear constantly underfoot that no one would admit to.

You got a good look at yourself, like it or not. Tim wasn't sure he liked all of it.

"Want to take her out?"

Tim started, refocused his eyes, wondered briefly if Fischer was back to hassling him again about Cecily then noticed the rifle he was setting on the table.

"It's a Dragunov," Tim said, a glimpse back of the fear underfoot. "Where'd you get that?"

"Ever shot one?"

"A couple of times in Afghanistan."

Fischer actually looked disappointed and it softened his features.

Tim stood up and hoisted the rifle. "What are you waiting for, summer? Where's the ammo? Let's go road test it against the Remington," he cajoled.

He needed the hard edges back on Fischer.

* * *


	14. Chapter 14

* * *

 

Tim arrived better prepared for an Xbox tournament this time, jeans and a t-shirt. Nick was first to the door.

"I got a new game," he exclaimed, trying to be cool about it but not quite shaking off the kid in him, not jumping but definitely buzzing, impatient. "Come on." He headed for the living room, motioning at Tim to follow him, stopped, took two steps back toward the door, motioned again, a few steps forward, stopped.

Rachel's mom came up behind him. "Nick, where are your manners? Take Tim's jacket for him." She held out her hand for it. "Nice to see you, Tim. Thanks for coming. He's a little wound up."

"It's okay," Tim said, grinning. He wiggled both hands on an imaginary controller. "I'm ready."

"To get creamed," Nick almost shouted then whooped, ran and threw himself on the couch.

Mrs. Brooks took Tim's jacket and smiled apologetically. "You don't have to, you know. I'll still make you dinner."

"Yeah, I do. I have the honor of the entire 75th to defend. And don't think this isn't fun for me," he added in a lower voice. "Even if I do get creamed."

Rachel called from the kitchen, "You want a beer?"

"Love one, thanks."

After dinner, Nick bounced back and forth between texting his friends and chatting with the adults in the dining room. The third trip around he interrupted triumphantly with, "I just told Scott that I owned an Army Ranger at Call of Duty."

"Nick," Rachel snapped at him, her tone scolding, "what have I told you about gloating? It sounds ugly. And besides, you spend hours playing. How much time do you think Tim gets on an Xbox?"

Bewildered, Tim looked over at Rachel, wondering why she was defending him when he _did_ get owned. He decided it had less to do with his feelings and more to do with parenting, and what could he possibly know about that. He kept his mouth shut.

"Yeah, but he gets to practice with a real gun," Nick grumped, sounding every one of his ten whole years.

Mrs. Brooks peered over at Tim. "And how many times have you had to use your weapon since you started working at the Marshals?"

Tim held up a zero, finger to thumb.

"Mm-hmm," she directed her point at Nick.

Nick slouched off dramatically.

"What happened to your arm?" Rachel asked, sitting up and noticing a dark red smear to the elbow.

Tim twisted it around, trying to see. "Uh, paint. I was helping a friend fix up her house."

"A girlfriend?" Mrs. Brooks teased.

"She's in her seventies," Tim clarified.

"He likes older women," Rachel ribbed him, hoping to see him squirm. "Watch yourself, Ma."

Tim turned an expressionless gaze on her. "Are you transferring out anytime soon?"

The corner of her mouth twitched up. "No. Why?"

"Just planning my revenge," he replied, a head tilt, evil glint, a look she was beginning to understand meant trouble, verbal usually but...

Nick marched back in abruptly, his thinking hard and quick. He was angry for being embarrassed in front of his new friend and he focused that spite on the elephant in the room, using it to climb back up on top. "Yeah, but he got lots of practice shooting people when he was in the war."

"Nick!"

Rachel was up out of her chair and her fury crushed Nick's anger. Nick couldn't unglue his feet in time to run before his eyes welled up with a righteous sense of injustice fueled by inexperience, insult on injury in his mind. He finally loosened his legs and ran.

Rachel brought her hands up to her face, turned to Tim. "I'm so sorry. I told him not to bother you about it. He overheard me talking…" She waved her hand helplessly at her mother then looked at the ceiling for an escape. "He was supposed to be in bed asleep when I…This is why I don't bring my work home," she finished, blaming herself.

Tim smoothed the tablecloth, twitched one shoulder, half an apology for disturbing their peace, half uncertain about his own feelings. "He's ten."

"And old enough to understand what I said." Rachel was embarrassed now, too, and angry because of it.

Tim ran a hand through his hair. "Can I go talk to him? Do you mind?" He asked more to be clear of the room. It unnerved him to see Rachel embarrassed.

Mrs. Brooks smiled her acquiescence, pointed upstairs.

Nick was in his pajamas sitting on the bed, just teeth to be brushed, believing it might lessen the trouble he was in. His face was set, hot and mulish.

"Hey," Tim said when he pushed at the door.

"It's not fair. I beat you."

"I never said you didn't. Why take it out on me?"

Tim leaned against the door frame and raised his eyebrows, looking sad in Nick's simple world.

Nick wiped at his eyes, an unformed shame niggling.

_I'd've been laid out by my dad for less than this_ , Tim thought. _Not my kid; not my problem._

"You can tell whoever you want that you kicked Army Ranger butt at COD, alright? _But_ …plunk you on a mountain in Afghanistan and I own you." He pointed challengingly at his pretend enemy then raised an eyebrow for play.

Nick narrowed his eyes at him, quick to slap away the bad feelings and join the game. "Oh yeah? I can run _fast_."

"You can outrun a bullet from a high-powered sniper rifle?" Tim snorted. "I don't think so. A round leaves the barrel at over 850 meters per second."

Nick's eyebrows furrowed trying to understand, trying to draw a picture against an imaginary landscape of desert and mountains, patched together with photos from Geography textbooks.

"That's about 2800 feet per second, or 1900 miles per hour. What do you know that goes 1900 miles per hour?"

Nick shrugged.

"Sound only travels at about 750 miles per hour. Can you outrun sound?"

Nick shrugged again, never having watched sound run.

"Okay," Tim said, thinking simpler. "A car travels on the highway at about 65 miles per hour. Can you outrun a car?"

Nick shook his head.

"You can't outrun a car going 65 miles per hour? Then how do you figure outrunning a bullet going 1900 miles per hour?" He made a sneering face, a playground jibe.

Nick smiled slyly, his woes forgotten. "I'll hide."

"I'll find you," Tim threatened. "You have to come up sometime for food, or to take a piss."

Nick giggled, still young enough to enjoy good bathroom humor. Tim grinned.

Nick planted his hands on his hips looking just like his Aunt Rachel. "Would you shoot me if you found me?"

"Nope, too much trouble for an Xbox squirt. I'd drop you in a puddle."

Nick laughed out loud, once, a gotcha, up on his knees bouncing again. "How are you going to find a puddle in the desert?"

"I'd _make_ one. I'd use up the last of my water and it'd be worth it just to drop you in it."

"You wouldn't."

"Dare me."

"I dare you," he breathed, giggling and terrified.

Nick squealed when Tim grabbed him by the foot. He dragged him thumping down the stairs, hoisted him up in the air at the bottom then out the door to the end of the driveway. He dropped him, squealing and laughing, into a dirty puddle of icy water.

Tim turned to the house and saw Rachel, hands planted firmly on her hips, backlit in the doorway.

"Gutterson, what are you doing?" she yelled.

"Shit, I'm in trouble," he whispered to Nick. Then he pointed down, called out to Rachel, "I think he needs a bath."

"And you need civilizing!"

* * *

"Tim?"

He was just reaching for his phone to call another vintage car club, looked up from his screen. Art was standing at the door to his office, his face serious.

"Got a minute?"

After the door was closed, Art started gently. "Are you sure you're prepared to use that rifle?"

Tim took a deep breath, let it out, scrunched up his face to hide his thoughts. "It's what I'm trained to do," he answered.

Art fished around on his desk for a different solution, came up empty. He got to the point although he wasn't sure he liked Tim's reply. "Dan's got a situation with a fellow he's been chasing. A suicide-by-cop situation. Are you okay with making the shot if it goes down that way?"

Tim nodded.

"He's got his wife and daughter with him and he's…" Art made hand motions, squinted at his new Marshal, "…he's making threats."

"We should get going then," Tim responded.

Art nodded in turn; the reluctance showed.

They pulled the truck up behind the row of police cars, double parking. Art climbed out and waved to Dan Shaw while Tim set up his rifle and walked the line of cars looking at options for angles.

"Any change?"

"He just shot his wife," Dan replied.

"Shit."

"We cornered him in the laundromat here over an hour ago. We've tried to talk him out but he's determined and I think he'll take his daughter with him before it's over. And there are two other people in there, caught up by accident."

They had followed Tim while they talked. He had settled on a spot and set up and was peering through the glass front into the building.

"The wife's still breathing," Tim said.

"You sure?"

"Yessir. The little girl is petrified, literally. You want to try and get to her in time? I have a clear shot."

"Is the window a problem?"

"Nope."

Art looked hard at Tim. "Can you do this?"

"Can he, or will he?" Dan corrected sternly. "Which do you mean?"

Art looked at the ground, at the tragedy playing out. "Both."

"It's not a problem," Tim answered, a part of the rifle, detached.

"Take him down."

Tim was careful never to put the little girl in the crosshairs, a superstition and a precaution with his finger now on the trigger, safety off. He let his mind go blank, sent off a round. He was breaking down his rifle while the rest of the team were still holding their breath. Then a sudden back draft when everyone started moving toward the building, everyone but the shooter and the guy who made the call. Art studied Tim while he packed up. He'd remark to Dan later about the confidence, saying something about an uneasiness mixed in, maybe just hoping. Tim closed up the rifle case, closed himself.

Dan strode back over. "Clean shot, Gutterson," he acknowledged with a nod, "thanks. EMS has the mother. They say it looks good."

A local media truck pulled up close by, spilled out cameras and curiosity and opportunity for the 6 o'clock news. Art whipped off his cap and put it on Tim's head at the same time that Dan passed over his sunglasses.

"Get in the truck," Art ordered, pushing Tim along the row of cruisers, standing between him and the cameras. "You can handle things from here?" He nodded to Dan, more a statement than a question.

"Get going." Dan waved them on and slid between the cars to join the law enforcement crowd.

They sat quietly in the truck for a minute, watching the scurrying. Art checked the time then started the engine and drove them away from the drama.

"February," he huffed, "suicide month. I wonder if it's a full moon, too."

Tim took off the hasty disguise and scratched his head. He didn't feel like talking.

"I promised you a quiet job in the Marshals Service, didn't I? I think I remember saying something like that to you before you joined." Art glanced over. "Maybe I exaggerated a little."

Tim could feel a headache coming on and started craving caffeine. He pushed his fingers into his eyes.

"Can we stop for coffee?"

"Sure," said Art, looking sad in his complicated world.


	15. Chapter 15

Under the circumstances Art felt she'd over-reacted, and he hated the position her over-reaction had put him in. He eyed his Deputy and tried to come up with appropriate words, maybe some wisdom or guidance to impart, but all that came to mind was something he'd heard back in college, Aristotle, if he remembered correctly. Nothing else offered itself, so he went with it.

"Anybody can get angry, that's easy. But getting angry at the right person, with the right intensity, at the right time, for the right reason, in the right way, that's hard."

Tim looked up at him, flat expression except for the body language. His pose suggested defeat, no expectations of clemency, waiting for the jury to say the inevitable 'guilty'.

"You're quoting Aristotle at me?" Tim wet his lips and sunk a little lower in the chair, not giving up even a glimpse of the anger the psychologist was so up in arms about.

"Aw hell, I'm not sure if I said it for your benefit or mine," Art replied honestly, surprised at being caught out plagiarizing the classics by this young man. There was always more to someone, always something to learn.

"Just so you understand," Tim said slowly, the lid tipped and the anger just visible now, simmering, hot. "I got angry the right amount, at the right person and for the right reasons."

"But did you really need to start throwing furniture?"

"I thought it better than punching her."

"I suppose you think I should congratulate you on your admirable restraint."

Art tried to sound angry but he wasn't, frustrated was closer and he couldn't help the disappointment slipping in. No one liked Ms. Ootes, but no one could figure out a way to get rid of her without a law suit. A little less restraint from Tim and she might have quit her contract and good riddance.

"And now it's officially on record." He waved her report. "You're an idiot."

Tim didn't disagree, whichever way Art meant that statement.

Art opened a drawer and dug around, pulled out an information flyer and tossed it onto the desk. "There's an anger management course that runs online. Complete it and this goes away."

Tim leaned forward, reached over for the paper, dragged it peevishly the rest of the way across the desk and slumped back in his chair.

"Mope all you want, but it's not like you really have a choice." Art felt the guilt niggling, responsible somehow, too soon. He added to lighten the punishment, "Hell, half the LEOs in Lexington are alumni. Why do you think I have the information in my desk? You're just clever enough to get it out of the way early in your career."

Art looked for something in Tim's expression, not sure what, then looked out at the bullpen and caught Rachel watching them, and Dan. He frowned and she went back to concentrating on her work. Dan just rolled his eyes making his feelings on the matter known. Word spread fast.

"But on the bright side," Art continued, "the Marshals Service pays for it." He wrinkled up his face suspiciously. "I wonder if she's getting kick-backs?"

Tim finally loosened up some, showing a feeble smile at the feeble joke then the two of them sat stewing, different thoughts about the same issue.

"You okay with the shooting?" Art eventually broke in, still dealing with it himself, with the guilt, not for the man at the morgue but for the one sitting across from him now.

"I'm fine."

"Really?"

Tim cocked his head. "What do you want me to say?"

* * *

"In the dog house, Gutterson?" Dan asked as he and Tim waited for the elevator at the end of the day.

Dan had stopped calling him Rover after the shooting; Tim noticed, wondered what that signified.

"Ha, ha," he replied, not feeling very witty.

Rachel walked up behind them, reached over and gave the sleeve of his jacket a tug in sympathy. "I heard you bit somebody."

"Did not. I just chewed on the furniture a little." Tim put on some irritable for effect but grinned sincerely enough for them as he slouched against the wall. They were attempting to make light of it and he appreciated their efforts.

"I think I have a craving for a burger and a brew at Molly's," Dan mused. "What do you say?"

Tim wasn't feeling very sociable, hesitated.

"I'm in," said Rachel then, "So's Tim."

"Sure," Tim replied, figuring they'd already colluded and he might as well play along.

The conversation was nearly a repeat of the one by the elevators a few days back, the day of the shooting, except it was Dan and Art that day. They had taken him out, knocked back a few rounds of something harder than beer, a rite of passage, then had seen to it that Tim got home without incident. Dan admired the now meagerly furnished apartment, not skimping on the sarcasm, and, satisfied that Tim was handling things well enough, left him alone.

Tim had plunked himself on the couch and watched the evening news. He switched it off after the first bad camera angle of the incident showed up on the local news cast and decided to sift through some emails as a distraction. He was about to switch himself off and fall into bed when one more email popped up and he opened it. Standing out in the text, like a mirror reflecting, were two familiar names, now dead Rangers, and a cursory report from a friend of the how and the where and whatever why was available. It hit him hard, slapped him awake and sober. He paced around the apartment trying to get a hold on what he saw reflected in those names then pulled out the other half of the bottle of bourbon from the previous week and deliberately and methodically finished it off.

If Art noticed that Tim was a bad shade of raw the next day, he didn't comment. Unaware of the news from across the world, Art chalked it up to the events in Lexington, and kept an eye on him. There was always work to be done and Rachel kept Tim busy. Somewhere among the rest of the week's duties, Art had lined up the appointment for Tim with the psychologist and that damage was done and now Tim was back at Molly's bar again with Dan and Rachel and another drink and another week passed, closer to some imaginary point of no return.

He stopped by the recruiting office Saturday morning at the end of his run. It was closed. He dropped his head against the glass of the door breathing heavily, fogging up his view of the inside. It felt like there was an equal amount of him in there as out here and he wasn't sure he could keep living like that. He ran his route backward, got home worn out. Pulled out his wallet, his credit card, logged in, paid and completed the four-hour online fucking-anger fucking-management course. She could chew on that. Then he showered and ate.

* * *

"Rachel told me about the incident with the psychologist."

"Ma!" Rachel looked horrified, searched again for an escape hatch on the ceiling, but not finding it she let out a silent movie scream, covered her face and sank her head on the table.

Tim didn't care and grinned at the dramatics. Everyone knew by now anyway. Something like that just doesn't stay a secret for long.

Dan was right about the office staff, they loved water cooler gossip. Tim's silence about his time in the military kept them amused. Early on, the idea surfaced that he had sat at a desk during his career as a Ranger doing Army bureaucracy missions. That rumor floated for a while but was shot full of holes and sank the day Tim put a perfect shot into the fugitive at the laundromat. After that, they speculated on the number of kills. Then after the business with the psychologist, it was generally agreed that he was tossed out of the military, conduct unbecoming, dishonorable discharge, a violent and loose cannon. They were quiet around his desk. Rachel hated it; Dan fed into it and laughed about it. Tim didn't care. Sooner or later they'd get bored with him.

Mrs. Brooks poked Tim with a spoon she'd pulled out of the drawer.

"Rachel doesn't like her, either."

"Ma!"

"Well, it's true."

Mrs. Brooks tasted her sauce. She sat back at the table, sipping on a glass of wine, fixing everyone's life while she fixed dinner. She gave Tim a knowing look, using the spoon as a pointer.

"Rachel had a bad case last year involving a young girl. The nightmares she had over that." She tut-tutted and shook her head.

"Ma, you don't need to tell that story."

"I wasn't going to tell the whole story." She turned a glare on Rachel for interrupting then looked kindly back at Tim. "That woman didn't help one bit. I finally found Rachel a therapist in town, private. Now he helped, didn't he?" she asked her daughter, but didn't wait for an answer. "He helped her, but we had to pay for that."

Tim chanced a glance over at Rachel who just shrugged and stated, "She's right. She's _always_ right."

He raced a hand up to cover the grin, scratched an imaginary itch on his chin.

"I have a friend in Tennessee," Mrs. Brooks continued. "I've known her since grade school. She's been in about every kind of therapy – couples therapy, personal therapy, even went to see a psychic. You know what she said to me? She said: therapists are like hairdressers, finding one that works for you is tricky. You've got to look for one that suits you, understands your uniqueness, or else just like a bad hairdresser they can make you feel even more miserable about yourself."

"Mom, just how many hairdressers do you think Tim's been to? He's a hairdresser virgin."

Mrs. Brooks's eyes drifted up to Tim's hair. "Mm."

* * *


	16. Chapter 16

* * *

There was a '68 blue Mustang. Neil and the Feds hadn't dug too deeply into Benjamin Corey's personal life yet and were no help, too focused on the computers. Tenacious, Rachel and Tim tracked it down. After dozens of phone calls they finally got a bite from a member of a vintage car club, a retired gentleman living the cold months of the year in New Mexico. He heard about the inquiries from the Federal Marshals through a friend and came back to Kentucky early, made himself available, happy to help and feeling important, and gave them the information they needed to pick up the trail again.

"The car wasn't registered at the time of the sale," Tim explained to Art after the phone call and the follow-up interview. "It wasn't road safe, was never insured or licensed. This guy had intended to fix it up, decided it was too much work and sold it to Corey 'as is' for cash. The whole deal was done through the mail a couple of months ago. Corey was supposed to take the ownership papers to the County Clerk's office for the title transfer. Never did. That's why it didn't show on the DMV."

"We have the VIN number and put out a BOLO for a '68 Mustang, blue, no plates or possibly stolen plates." Rachel shrugged, nonchalant, but couldn't completely hide her excitement. "With any luck, someone will spot it."

"With any luck." Art served up a satisfied grin. "And you went and talked to Randy Sullivan again, right? Still closed tight as a …?" Art started, stopped. "Well, still not talking?"

Rachel and Tim both covered smiles, filling in the part Art left out.

"Still not talking," Rachel confirmed. "And he's also denying any knowledge of the car we found in Corey's garage even though it's been reported stolen by an acquaintance of his in Tennessee."

Art nodded. "How did he react when you mentioned Benjamin Corey?"

"He definitely looked a little nervous. I imagine he's not too keen to be linked to another child pornography ring."

"We still don't know anything for sure," Art reminded her.

Tim shifted in the doorway, catching Art's eye.

"Good reason to try suicide though, if you're worried about being caught for something like that. Talk about your life going to the shitter," Tim stated graphically for them. "You know, I'd happily teach a class on how to hold a gun to blow out your brains properly if the others on our list are interested."

Art frowned and narrowed his eyes.

"Just trying to be helpful." Tim shrugged, stared back without blinking.

Rachel decided it was time to leave, pushed Tim ahead of her out of Art's office. "Sarcasm," she said over her shoulder to her boss as she gave Tim a final shove. "We'll keep you up-to-date."

Rachel followed on Tim's heels to his desk, hissed as he sat down, "Are you crazy or are you desperate for another go with the psychologist?"

"I think you just asked the same question two different ways," Tim pointed out, grinning.

"Seriously, Tim," she snapped. " _I_ know you're kidding, but other people don't and you have a license to carry…" She made an open-handed gesture at his sidearm.

The office administrator walked past as Rachel was whispering at Tim. The woman smiled nervously, stood stiffly at the copier. Rachel looked over at her, raked her eyes down her back and over again at Tim.

"See what I mean? I'm sick of this. Aren't you?"

Tim wove his fingers together and stretched his arms out then behind his head, propping it up tiredly as he slouched. "Nope. I kind of like it. They leave me alone. And it amuses Dan."

"God, it's like I'm partnered with a pariah or a...a…"

"…a freak in a circus sideshow," Tim offered.

Rachel's phone rang before she could agree. She spoke briefly then hung up, sat on the corner of his desk and stared at the display.

Tim tried to read her expression and took a guess. "You win the lottery?"

"They found the Mustang."

He sat up. "No shit."

"Just north of the Tennessee border. I guess I did win the lottery." She grinned for him.

"Let's go check it out," Tim said, excitement bubbling then as quickly subsiding and he threw her a question. "Are we allowed to go?"

"Hell, yes," she threw back.

* * *

Rachel insisted that Tim drive while she made a couple of phone calls, then she took over for the return leg, steering them to the interstate along the dark roads after talking to the locals and inspecting the Mustang. The phone calls were just an excuse, her effort at manipulating the day so she'd be doing the driving into the evening. She didn't trust Tim to stay awake. She noticed his fatigue lately, wondered if he was having trouble sleeping. He didn't seem too bothered about the shooting but she didn't know him well enough yet to say for sure and wrestled with discussing it with him or maybe Art.

Like everyone else in the office she was curious, but she would never ask him about Afghanistan. He hadn't asked about Nick. Maybe she'd tell him that story one day; maybe he'd tell her something. But it had to come from him willingly to be worth anything.

She darted her eyes over, chancing a quick look. Tim was asleep. His cell rang. He almost killed them when he woke violently, startled by his phone buzzing and vibrating against his hip, hitting Rachel with a swinging arm. The car swerved, nearly careening off the road when he knocked her arm off the steering wheel. She corrected, swore at the thankfully not too soft, soft shoulder of the highway and snapped a glare sideways at him. She noticed her language becoming more colorful with her ex-Army Ranger around.

"Oh God, I'm sorry," Tim rasped, scrambling to pull out his phone.

Both of their hearts were racing now, both their eyes wide open. Rachel reached over for her coffee, knocked at a funny angle, and took a good drink, lukewarm but it didn't matter.

Tim stared at the display, hit connect, said, "What the fuck? Couldn't you warn me before you call?"

Neil's voice: "How did you know it was me?"

"Said 'Agent Paulsen, Federal Bureau of Investigation' on the display."

"Really? It's not supposed to."

"You know, you haven't changed much, you're still gullible, and I'm still kidding. It said 'Private Name' or something, just I don't get many people calling me. What's up?"

"I'm checking up on you, asshole."

"Why? Am I under investigation?"

"No…At least I don't think so. Hey, did you get the email?" Neil's voice dropped a few levels to serious.

A pause. "Yeah."

"Don't do it."

Another pause, Tim questioned, "Don't do what?"

"Don't go to the recruiting office. Don't be stupid. Don't react. It's not your fault. You probably wouldn't even have been in the same area. If you want to go to the funerals, call me. I'll go with you."

Tim didn't respond and the silence was louder than the talking. Rachel looked over, caught Tim's eye. He flicked his away.

"I already did," he said and rubbed his forehead.

"Did what?"

"Went by the recruiting office." Tim let a little more of himself out for Rachel to see.

"Go back and pull the application." Neil's voice was demanding.

"The place was closed."

"Oh…Good."

"We found Corey's Mustang." Tim changed the subject.

"Really?"

"I'll send you our report. I owe you."

"Cool. Anyone _in_ the car?"

"Nope. The engine had seized. It was ditched on a nothing road just our side of Tennessee."

"You should check into other stolen vehicles in the area."

Tim rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the tip, Mr. Suit. We already did. She's been in the business longer than you, you know."

"Geez, buddy, relax. Defensive or what? Just saying. You're in a car now, right?"

"Yep."

"In the company of the lovely Deputy Brooks?"

"Yep."

"Still on the clock?"

"Yep."

"Call me when you get home. Doesn't matter what time. Call me."

"Sure, okay."

Tim rang off and slid his head over against the window, yawned noisily just to hear Rachel let out a 'tcha'. It was fully dark now and he tried to make out where they were from the gray-toned shapes sliding by. 'London' a sign offered as the next exit, so another hour and a bit to Lexington. The white noise of the engine lulled him to sleep again.

"Recruiting office? As in Army recruiting?"

Rachel's voice smashed into his dream like a glass dropped on a concrete floor. He jerked awake again but kept his limbs to his side of the car this time. He was grateful for the intrusion. He didn't like the dream.

"Is this something we need to talk about?" Rachel was regretting her attitude his first couple of weeks, wishing to replay it. "Is there something about the job that's bothering you? You're not upset about the psychologist, I hope. Even Art complains about her. He wasn't angry with you. In fact, I think he feels bad."

Tim listened to her talking, trying to feel her way through his head, stumbling around like she was wearing a blindfold and searching for him, playing that game, _what was it called?_ Marco Polo. He always thought that was a stupid game. Just how hard could it be to avoid someone stumbling around blindfolded unless somebody else interfered, came up behind you and pushed you into their path. But there was no one else here in the car to push him into Rachel's path and he was too good at this game to let her corner him.

The psychologist though, she had cheated; she peeked, lifted the blindfold.

"What did she say to make you so angry?"

Rachel kept trying, groping blindly to catch him. He thought she even looked the part with her arms straight out in front on the steering wheel, and he grinned at the image. She wouldn't give up; he knew that much about her. He let out a breath and pushed himself into her path so she wouldn't stumble upon something by accident.

"I hated the way she had me pigeon-holed before she even met me." He added, sounding angry all over again, "She'd read everything there was to know about me in my employee file and my military file. Accused me of looking at it all through the crosshairs, removed and unemotional, you know? When it was her who was guilty of that, looking at me through a tiny scope; so fucking narrow-minded. I might as well have had SNIPER tattooed across my forehead in neon. It's all she saw when I walked in."

"Tim, you are a sniper."

"Yeah, and you're a black woman."

Rachel laughed, surprised and spontaneous, not the reaction he was expecting. "My sessions are supposed to be private! Did she let you read her assessment of me or something?" She shook her head, took her hands off the steering wheel briefly to surrender. "Okay, point made and very succinctly I might add."

"I wonder what she thinks of Art." Tim amused himself for a moment trying to stereotype his boss.

"I don't think he's had to sit down with her," Rachel replied and thought, too, about how to draw Art in two-dimensions. That would take a talent that only Stephanie Ootes, psychologist to the cops, would have.

"I'm thinking of getting a life-size cutout of Charles Whitman and sending that to her for my next session," Tim mused. "Do you think she'd catch on it wasn't me?"

"You have to go back?" Rachel asked, worried.

"Well, it's highly likely," Tim replied. "I'm a sniper, remember."

That stopped the conversation cold and they drove on a few miles, both quiet. Tim drifted off again; Rachel dropped another glass.

"I don't think 'sniper', Tim, when I see you. And you make a good Marshal. Don't quit now."


	17. Chapter 17

* * *

 

"Gutterson, you're with me this afternoon." Dan Shaw met Tim at the door after lunch and turned him around. "Deputy Brooks has some personal business to attend to."

"Nick again?"

"I didn't inquire."

Tim spun on his heel and followed Dan to the elevators. "Where're we headed?"

"Just out to Versailles. I got to pick up a two-bit, chop-shop, dip-shit who's supposed to have shown up for court today." Dan sauntered onto the elevator, disgruntled words but the usual easy drawl. "I told the Judge to give me the okay to keep him in custody the night before the trial, told him he wouldn't show, but no, too much trouble to sign the paperwork. So now I have to chauffeur the idiot. At least I get the pleasure of putting him in handcuffs."

Dan explained the workings of the auto theft ring while they took the short drive out of Lexington. They were small-time crooks involved in inter-state crimes, and Dan gave an amusing account of the star witness who was supposed to show up for the trial and didn't. When he had Tim softened up, chuckling at his descriptions, he pounced.

"What's eating you?"

"What?"

"Come on, now. None of us are blind. Our job is reading people. So, what's eating you?" Dan turned a look on him.

"I must've missed that class during training."

Dan drew back, confused. "What class?"

"The class that you and Rachel and the Chief obviously took where they teach _that_ look," Tim replied, gesturing over at the Texan's face.

"This look?" Dan pulled the face again.

"Yep."

"I learned it from my second ex. If you want I'll invite her to Lexington to teach it to you."

"Somehow, I don't think it'd be worth it."

"She's probably a little old for you," Dan conceded.

They arrived at their destination before Dan could get a proper response from Tim. He pulled over to the curb outside the gates of an automobile graveyard. Hundreds of cars, skeletons, stripped, stacked, and waiting to be crushed then sold for metal scrap.

"I've never been in a wrecking yard," Tim said, eager to check it out. He felt the boy in him jumping up and down. "You know, I always wanted to be a race car driver, either that or a mechanic."

But the memory faded and the smile with it as he caught sight of the three expensive SUVs parked in a line on the opposite side of the street, conspicuous. Dan was eyeing them, too, and they both hesitated, instinctively wary.

"You want me to call in the plates?"

"Yeah, good idea," Dan replied.

Tim rang the office and read the one license plate number he could see on the first car. Art must've been standing by the administrator's desk because he came on the line with the information on the car, obviously bothered by something. He asked a few questions of his own then hung up.

"The dark one in front is registered to a guy from Frankfort, Dixie Mafia apparently," Tim relayed.

"Dixie Mafia. No kidding," Dan chuckled. "I didn't know anyone used that name anymore, thought it fizzled out in the '70s. For real?"

Tim shrugged. "It's all new to me."

Tim's phone rang, still in his hand. He had a quick conversation, then, "That was Art calling back. He suggests we sit tight. He's coming up and bringing some extra bodies with him. He says the Frankfort thugs are gun happy."

Dan sat a moment, considering his options. "I'm sure it's nothing we can't handle." He rolled his eyes and said, mocking, "Dixie Mafia," and climbed out of the car. "Some piddly little crime syndicate and they think putting 'Mafia' in their name puts them on a par with the New York families."

"You worked in New York?" Tim asked, following behind to the wrecking yard office.

"Six years. I tell you, every Marshals office is different; different feel, different work. The New York City office is as different as they come. You'd hate it."

"Why would I hate it?"

"In a big office in a major city, the GL-07s, the new guys like you, they're stuck with either court duty full-time or just doing the shit work for the 11s and 12s. Considering how physical your last job was, I think you'd go crazy," Dan explained. "You were smart choosing a small bureau for your first, better variety in the work and you get out more."

"Don't mean to disappoint you but I wasn't smart. It was just familiar."

"You're from Kentucky?"

"Yep."

"I'd've taken something in Texas when I started if it were available. I did my three in Memphis."

"What grade were you when you were in New York?"

"I was a GL-12 by then, assigned full-time to the Fugitive Task Force. It was never dull. Though I have to admit, I kind of like being here. I could do this longer if they'd let me. Wouldn't want to be back in New York at my age."

No one was in the office so they walked past the open gate and peered around the building into the yard. The yard, too, was empty and quiet. They both drew their sidearms and continued, edging slowly and cautiously along the ends of the rows of wrecks. Down the last aisle was the item Dan was looking for, the witness along with three of his acquaintances from Frankfort. It didn't look like a friendly reunion.

"Well, damn. It's never just easy," Dan summarized his feelings about the job.

He did a quick check of the area then stepped into the open and called out, "Gentlemen, I'm Deputy Shaw, US Marshal. That item there currently belongs to the Federal Government. If you would just set any firearms you might be carrying on the ground and take a step or two back, I'll take possession and be on my way and I promise no trouble for you this afternoon."

Both Tim and Dan had their weapons up, all business.

The witness started weaseling. "I don't know what they're talking about. I got no business with the Feds."

One of the Frankfort boys knocked him to his knees with a crowbar to the back of the legs.

"Oh now, you break it, you buy it," Dan warned. "And the price involves time at a federal pen. He's expensive and no doubt not worth it."

"Marshal," the one in the suit spoke, Number One, Tim labeled him, "five of my men are standing behind you, armed every one and happy to have an excuse. I'll give you one chance to walk away. Go have a drink. Come back in an hour."

Dan turned to look behind him, wondered where they'd been hiding, cursed, "Well, damn. Like I said, it's never just easy. Tim, I suggest…"

Then he just collapsed, crumpled, like someone pulled the stake out of the scarecrow. Everyone stared. Tim looked down briefly. Dan was staring back up at him and blinked, looking confused. Tim stepped next to him and leveled his weapon at the man in the suit, Number One.

He heard footsteps behind him, maybe twenty yards back, and a round chambered and a voice growled, "Put your gun down."

"Not happening," Tim replied forcefully.

He didn't turn to look. He kept his Glock and his eyes locked on the man in charge.

"Put your gun down," the voice commanded again.

"Nope."

He understood fear well; he understood the value of taking out the commanding officer. A quick survey earlier of the group had provided all the clues he needed to identify which one was giving the orders, which one was next in line for promotion. If it came to it he knew he wouldn't survive the ensuing battle but he'd take out number one and number two. He played the shots out in his head, a loop, stood calmly and hoped that Art was breaking some speed limits.

Number One spoke, "Put down your gun, Marshal. What're you going to do, shoot us all? One signal from me and you're dead."

"Believe me, I'm watching for that signal. That's my signal, too," Tim replied.

"Drop the gun!"

"NO!"

He pulled the trigger back through to the firing stage, kept the gun level. Number One hesitated. Number Two looked uncertainly at Number One. The tension was a haze. Then Art's voice cleared the air.

"US Marshals. You're completely surrounded. Drop your weapons and place your hands on your heads."

Tim didn't hear the last words. Before Art could finish the men had turned to the new threat and opened fire, happy to release the tension built up out through their arms and by osmosis into their rifles. Everyone scrambled for cover in the volley of bullets. Tim, forgotten in the middle of the mayhem, moved with the first shot, crouched, grabbed Dan by the jacket and dragged him to the side, pulling him between two cars and out of the line of fire.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he cursed softly, looking for a way to join in but unable, caught where they were behind enemy lines. He decided it best to wait it out.

Dan sat up suddenly, looking surprised. "What the hell happened?"

* * *

"What the hell happened? Why did you go in? We were only fifteen minutes down the road. And what the hell was Tim doing? Did he seriously think he could take on eight guys, all armed, by himself? He could've gotten you both killed!" Art was on a roll, pacing the hospital room, upset about the possible outcome, angry at losing control of the situation. And he didn't like being shot at.

"Art, now, come on. Tim was in that situation because he trusted me and I led him into it." Dan interrupted the rant and spoke gravely and it was unusual enough that Art stopped and listened. "I've had plenty of time to think about it while the doctors have been running all their tests. I was arrogant. Didn't think the hillbilly crooks in Kentucky could put together this kind of manpower and went ahead without waiting for you. Tim only did what he was trained to do, and that's never give up his weapon."

"That is not what they teach at Glynco, Dan, and you know it."

"Art, he was at Glynco for eighteen weeks, less than six here on the job, and by my calculations he was a Ranger for most of eight _years_. They drill it into you in the Army – never relinquish your rifle. In war, the enemy is not going to worry about the consequences of shooting you. They don't go to jail. And I remember the stories about what they'd do if they captured a sniper. Both sides. Dead would be preferable." Dan smiled sadly. "Give him time. He's got a good head on his shoulders. He just needs to adjust his thinking."

Dan and Art had 60 years in the Marshals Service between them. They both knew how quickly and how often things could go sideways, the potential chaos when firearms were blended with desperation and clashing motives. Second guesses weren't practical. Art reconsidered.

Dan continued, "Besides, I'm not so sure he handled it wrong."

"Of course you'd think that," Art quipped. "You're a Texan." He tapped the breast of his jacket, hoping to surprise himself and find a secret bourbon stash. "I need a flask for days like this," he said, calmer now.

"I have one in my car," Dan offered.

"I didn't need to hear that."

"Then I shouldn't mention the bottle in your desk drawer?"

Art sat back and made a wry face. "So, how do I manage this one? I've got a veteran who made a rookie mistake; and a rookie who made a veteran mistake."

Dan chuckled appreciatively. "That's a good way to sum it up."

"And we still need to talk about you and what happened today," Art gestured at Dan, smiled in empathy. "Why do you think I took on a desk job?"

* * *


	18. Chapter 18

* * *

 

An administrator at the Marshals office gave Rachel a bloody version of the events at the wrecking yard. It was short on facts and long on gory details. Art calmed her down when she phoned him in a panic. He directed her to the hospital Emergency Room where she found Tim leaning against a wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the floor, aggravatingly still. She took a similar pose beside him and waited to be noticed, couldn't tell if he was even breathing and wanted to poke him to be sure. The urge was overwhelming so she finally did and he grunted, turned his head to look at her.

"You okay?" she asked, checking him over.

He huffed and chewed on his lower lip. "Dan is definitely more entertaining to work with than you."

"How is he? Someone said he was shot."

"No, he was down before the shooting even started. All I got from the nurse was that he suffered from a...TIA?" He raised his eyebrows apologetically. "And before you ask, I have no idea. You wouldn't know any Latin, would you?"

Rachel smiled at his confusion and solved the riddle. "TIA is _transient ischemic attack_."

Tim mouthed an 'O' then waited hopefully for further explanation.

"He had a mini-stroke," she translated. "It happened to my aunt."

"Thank you. English, finally," he joked, not a glimpse of humor. "Is that serious? He seemed fine right after."

"It indicates a problem. It probably means light duty until he winds up his career."

Tim nodded, unsure whether or not to feel relieved. He thought backward through the chain of events from the day and then remembered why he was even along for the ride to the wrecking yard.

"Everything okay with Nick?"

Rachel did a good imitation of a saint, martyred sigh, heavenward roll of the eyes. "It's always fighting with him. Something sets him off and it usually involves mention of his father, or fathers in general."

Stressed, she tugged at her ear, a habit. It was an action Tim was becoming familiar with and he grinned at his shoes. She caught him at it and frowned.

"And that's funny?" She was still raw about it.

"No!" He straightened his expression. "Fathers are not a funny topic. It was you pulling on your ear," he explained, mimicking her action. "You look about five years old when you do it."

"Do not."

"Do, too."

Her face said clearly, _grow up_. He grinned again.

Art appeared down the hall and motioned for Tim to join him.

"Uh-oh," Tim sighed and pushed off the wall.

"Tim?" She sounded small.

He turned back.

"Would you come over this weekend and try talking to him?" she pleaded, looking embarrassed.

"Me? What do I know about fathers?"

"You had one, unless you were hatched."

"He was an asshole," Tim spit it out, a crack in the composure.

"Then you're the perfect person to talk to Nick," she countered, again pleading. "His father's in prison. And he likes you."

He didn't give her a 'yes' or a 'no'; he turned and walked over to join Art.

* * *

Tim opened the door just enough to slip in sideways. He felt awkward, like he was on a first date, not sure if he was really welcome. Dan was sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, making it clear to everyone that he was not occupying it and had no intention of making himself comfortable in it. He was flipping through a magazine and looked up when the door opened.

"Gutterson," Dan Shaw barked it out like an order, and oddly it put Tim more at ease. "Art says you took care of my handguns."

"Yeah, I left them in the armory for you. Had them stencil your name on the barrels so they wouldn't get mixed in with the department inventory."

Dan blinked once then grew a sly grin slowly up one side. " _You_ would never do that."

Tim tilted his head and thought about it. "Yeah, you're right. You know me too well."

Dan waved him into a chair.

Tim wanted to ask what the doctors had said but decided it was none of his business. "Art said you wanted to see me?"

"We never finished our conversation," Dan explained. "You were going to tell me what's been eating at you the last week."

"No, I wasn't." Tim looked at him, challenging.

"It's either that or you have to listen to me groveling and apologizing for getting you into that mess this afternoon."

Tim wiggled in his chair, started to get that first-date feeling back. He looked around the room then back at Dan who was waiting expectantly.

"It's nothing."

"No, it's something or you wouldn't have anything to call a 'nothing.' You can't cheat a Texan."

Tim smiled at the logic and added some of his own in a tone liberally sprinkled with sarcasm for flavor. "Sometimes not talking is more tiring than talking." He resigned himself, slid into neutral and stated the facts. "I got word that a couple of buddies were killed in a firefight."

"And you want to re-enlist, go back and kick some butt, get some revenge," Dan filled it out.

"You hear that from Rachel?"

Dan confessed, "She asked me to talk to you."

Tim figured that was one more reason not to let women in the Rangers – they were too mean, too smart _and_ too tricky.

"There's no revenge possible out there," Dan added.

"Yeah, well, I'm plenty aware of that." Tim pondered his motives. "I'm not interested in revenge. Honestly, it just feels good getting in the way of couple of bullets coming at the guys, you know? One way or another."

The statement was a bit unclear but Dan understood it. Tim just wanted to play his part.

"You can do that right here in Kentucky, Tim. You don't have to go Asia for that kind of satisfaction." He tossed the magazine he'd been reading onto the side table a little too hard and it skidded straight off and onto the floor. He barked out an embarrassed laugh. "I can promise you some bullets if you keep working with me."

Tim tilted his head, just a bit. "Are you trying to make me feel better or are you threatening me? I can't tell."

"You saved my life twice today, so I'm returning the favor."

"Twice?"

"If I went back to Rachel without an answer from you, she'd kill me."

* * *

"Well?"

"Well, what?" Rachel questioned.

"Well," Art replied, "it's been six weeks. How's your ex-Army Ranger working out?"

"Fine. He works hard."

"You haven't noticed anything off about him at all?"

"Off?"

"Things like nightmares or flashbacks and the like."

Rachel shook her head, trying to dislodge the thoughts Art had just put into her mind, worked her face into confusion. "You want me to start sleeping with him?"

"No!" Art backtracked. "That's not what I meant. Jesus. That's just what I need, a bullpen romance, ending tragically with him on the roof across the street picking us all off."

Rachel arched a brow. "That's not even remotely funny," she responded angrily. Feeling the need to defend Tim she pointed accusingly at Art. "And you're the one who put a rifle back in his hands."

Art sat back and reassessed. The conversation wasn't going the way he wanted.

"Well I've obviously hit a nerve. So either you are sleeping with him or there is something off. Which is it?"

She hedged. "Dan's already taken full responsibility for what happened yesterday."

"We're not talking about yesterday, and besides, you weren't even there."

"I heard Dan's version and I heard Tim's and I think…"

"Do you want my job?" Art interrupted, annoyed. "Honestly, this week, I think I'd let you have it."

Rachel crossed her arms and sat stiffly in her chair. Art decided he'd better change tack.

"Rachel, this is not a witch hunt. I promised Cathy, at Glynco, a follow-up phone call," he explained, wagged his head and smiled. "She's got a personal interest in seeing that Tim does okay. Now, I intend to tell her that the people he's been working closely with are perfectly satisfied with his performance. But she'll ask about the other stuff."

"The other stuff?" Rachel tried to appear like she didn't understand, but it came across as evasive.

"I spent the weekend before he started looking up the indicators for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. And before you get defensive again – _of course, he's a likely candidate_. He's human, isn't he? It wouldn't be fair to him to deny him his experiences."

"I looked it up, too," she admitted, looking guilty for switching sides.

Art sat back contentedly, relaxed a little and pried, "And why would you do that?"

"We almost got into an accident on the highway the other night. He can be pretty violent when he wakes up."

"Uh-huh," Art encouraged.

"And," Rachel hesitated, "I don't think he's sleeping well." She raised her hands to show her doubt, unwilling to conclude anything, uncertain about continuing. "But it's nothing that's affecting his work."

"Okay. Just keep me informed. If it becomes a problem then we get him some help."

She smiled for him, realizing they'd been on the same side all along.

"Honestly Rachel, did you think I was looking for an excuse to kick him to the curb? I'd miss his rifle."

Her face clouded again.

"I'm kidding! Yeesh." He narrowed his eyes. "Are you sure you're not sleeping with him?"

She finally allowed a joke from him, rolled her eyes, joined in. "Yeah, right. Scrawny, tattooed, white boy. So _not_ my type." She had started for the door but stopped before opening it. "My mom likes him, though, or at least she's adopted him. She feeds him. He's like a stray."

"Well, I'm glad somebody's feeding him," Art commented, laughing at the picture formed.

And that was that. And Rachel walked out, back to her desk, not feeling like she'd just cut into Tim and not feeling like she'd kicked the downed-dog, Nick, by betraying his friend. She tried to figure out why she felt like she'd been walking on eggshells, why she always thought she was in it alone. She stared at her screen for a while, nothing interesting, just a screen saver, floating pictures of remembered happiness. She sank a little into her feelings, wondered if that was all there was, just remembered happiness.

"Okay, I'll talk to him." Tim had appeared in front of her desk while she was getting her footing in her new reality, his hands tucked, just the tips, into his pant pockets, shoulders tense but rocking easy on his heels and staring at a spot behind her on the wall. "Though I don't know if I can help, really, you know? Maybe I'll just listen. That'd probably be best, right? I can't imagine what I could say…" Tim shut his mouth and wrinkled up his nose in disgust. "I hated my dad."

"I loved mine," Rachel said. "At least I think I did. But I'm not sure it made any difference."

He looked at her, or rather used her as a movie screen, flickering scenes of his own past there, then blinked, refocused, lifted his eyebrows and walked back to his desk.

"Sunday again?" she called after him.

"I'll bring back your mom's food containers from last time. Clean and _empty_ ," he hinted.

He picked up a report he'd sent to the printer on his way past, folded it in four and slipped it into his back pocket. While Rachel was in chatting with Art, he'd done a search on her brother-in-law, Nick's dad. Found what he needed to know.


	19. Chapter 19

* * *

 

Tim was supposed to call her Friday night. Cecily had gotten tired of waiting for him to ask so she'd handed him her cell number before he left the range the previous week and told him the exact date and time that he was to call her. She'd made it easy, really. So it was hard for him to screw it up, but he did.

Tim was supposed to call her Friday night so they could make plans for Saturday night. Friday night came and he went for a long run after work, thinking hard about Nick, about what to say to a ten-year-old whose father was in prison. Then Rachel called. Someone had reported a car stolen in the area around where the Mustang had turned up. She fumed a while, complaining about the locals and how long it took them to finally inform her about it. She had put out another BOLO on the vehicle and told him to cross his fingers and to have a good weekend and to show up hungry on Sunday. Then Neil called, on the road, in no hurry to get back to his own empty apartment and wanting a drink. The two of them did a repeat of the last drunken stupor, only this time telling stories about their fallen comrades and this time ending with Neil hanging off Tim's couch.

Consequently, Tim was nursing a bad hangover late into Saturday morning. Finally he accepted that the hangover was going to hang on a while yet and he got on with his day. He drove over to his former teacher's house to replace the worn boards on the steps to the back yard. Every hammer stroke jangled his head and she brought him out a tall glass of water and two Tylenol and a knowing smile. He accepted it all, grateful and sheepish, then got back to work.

"Thank you for answering his phone," Rachel said, showing up at the door later, arched eyebrow and long-suffering shake of the head. She stood on the porch, professional, geared up for Marshal business on a Saturday.

"He's told me all about you, Deputy Brooks, so I thought it was probably important. I'm Josephine Hall." She smiled pleasantly and held the door open, inviting Rachel to step in. "I told him you were on your way over."

Rachel offered up one of her rare award-winning smiles, predisposed to like this woman, and accepted a friendly handshake. She was curious about Tim's former teacher, curious why he would feel an obligation to her and spend precious time here on his weekends. She had decided to pick him up just so she could meet the enigmatic Miss Hall.

"I was just making tea," Josephine said, speaking lightly, socially, as if fully-armed US Federal Marshals always showed up at her door. "Do you have time for a cup? I think Tim has a nasty hangover and could probably use something stronger but I don't keep anything in the house. Tea will have to do for him."

Rachel followed her into the kitchen, her face screwed up to keep the laughter threatening to break under control. "He's hung-over?" she managed to get out. It probably wouldn't have been so funny if she weren't hearing it from his old school teacher, gray-hair escaping a haphazard bun, well-worn blouse, well-worn sweater and well-worn pants, everything about her worn, everything except her eyes, pools of deep water, intelligence and mischief. Rachel suspected she'd have liked math more if Miss Hall had been teaching it at her high school.

Josephine poured the boiling water into the pot then turned around to face Rachel. Her mouth twitched and the pools rippled with amusement. "Oh yes, definitely hung-over. Hard to miss. He looks pretty rough. It probably wouldn't be a good idea to step out the back and yell too loudly that his tea's ready."

Rachel and Josephine shared a look. Rachel checked her watch.

"We definitely have time for a quick cup. I'll just call him in for you," Rachel offered kindly, gesturing with a casual motion, one elegant finger pointing to the back of the house.

She squeezed past the table and opened the back door, and opened her lungs, "GUTTERSON, TEA'S READY!" and let it swing shut again with a bang. She could hear Josephine chortling behind her.

* * *

"And they picked up Price _in_ the stolen car," Rachel explained as she drove Tim down to the city lock-up. "The BOLO got a lot more attention with a federal warrant attached to it."

Tim was still trying to piece together in some kind of logical order the news that Rachel had given him. It was difficult forming a coherent picture when he had to take his thoughts on rough back-road detours past wasted brain cells. One thing that she said did stick out because it struck him as odd and he repeated it and waited for Rachel to put it in place for him.

"In Lexington?"

She savored a lengthy pause before she answered, letting his thoughts scrape painfully for a while longer.

"Yes, in Lexington," she replied, speaking more slowly. "He had gone back to Corey's house."

"Oh. That's dumb."

"Tim, just how much did you drink last night?"

He groaned; it was easier than adding it all up. "It was the FBI's fault," he explained. "Maybe I could charge them for attempting to poison me with alcohol."

"Neil?"

"Mm."

"How much?" she repeated.

"Way, way too much," Tim answered then added with feeling, "Fuck."

Rachel stopped for coffee.

They stayed in the car in the parking lot at the Lexington lock-up, blew the steam off their coffee and sipped at it and planned what they were going to say to Albert Price. The planning was mostly one-sided. Tim sat quietly, sunglasses on, cap pulled down, his free arm across his torso holding himself tightly like he might fall apart if he let go. He was straining to get past the agony in his head and listen carefully to what she was saying.

Something important surfaced through the day-old alcohol fumes and he interrupted, "Uh, Corey finally started talking, well, sort of. I think he's actually typing."

"When did you hear this?" Rachel demanded, a spike of annoyance at not knowing.

"Neil was telling me last night," Tim explained, missing the warning signals. "They found all kinds of illegal pornography at his house. He got a lawyer then made a deal. Apparently he was the hub. They were sending batches of files by Fedex through his business disguised as computer repairs, hard-drive recovery. Not as fast and convenient as the internet but Neil said the Feds are getting good at online forensics and these guys had gone to ground, so to speak, because of it. The Feds only caught on to the whole thing recently when one of the customers, some guy in Philly, started uploading some of the pictures, which was stupid since the whole point was not to. And they tracked him down and he knew Price but that's all, but it led them to Corey eventually. Corey said Randy Sullivan was brought in to lean on him because he was getting cold feet after that guy was caught, the one in Philly."

Rachel took another sip of coffee, sifted through Tim's rambling for the important information and counted to ten to keep from losing her temper. She then tried it in Spanish, the counting to ten, dredging up the words from memory. That took her a little longer. Tim started fiddling nervously with the rim of his cup.

"Sorry, I should've called you this morning with that but…"

"Shut up." She took another sip. "I suppose I'm grateful that you told me before I went in there and made an ass of myself. I should report this to Art, you being this drunk. Don't make a habit of it."

"I don't recall signing anything saying I was on the clock twenty-four/seven," he snapped.

Her response was quick.

"I don't care what you do as long as it doesn't affect _my_ work."

"Yes, ma'am."

She jerked open the car door and climbed out and slammed it closed. Tim grabbed his head to keep it from shattering then followed her at a safe distance.

* * *

Albert Price was as cooperative as Randy Sullivan and more annoying. Tim wished he could have kept hammering the back step at Miss Hall's. Every nail felt like it was going into his head but at least it was penance of his own choosing.

Albert Price thought he was a comedian, and it was painful, too, though in terms of penance it was more like a hair shirt. He just aggravated. He called Rachel, 'Deputy Do Dah' which slipped into 'Dippity Do Dah' toward the end. His laugh, the only laugh in the room and making up for it, crawled over them like a rash. The two Marshals left more edgy than they'd been when they walked in.

Rachel didn't have much to say to Tim afterward and dropped him back at Miss Hall's. It was on the drive home that Tim finally remembered Cecily. He pulled over, steeled himself and called her. She was a little cool but told him where to pick her up and when and he did. They went to a bar for a bit of food and some drinks. He couldn't think of much to say but that was fine with her. She filled in for him, guessing wrong at his thoughts on everything from the food to movies to the war in Afghanistan, and with an ignorant certainty that was shrill over the music. And he was sober.

He shut her out after a while and wondered why he was so happy to sit and listen to Rachel's mom talk but not Cecily. One didn't talk any more than the other, except that Rachel's mom also listened and that made all the difference. With Cecily, it wasn't a conversation.

Tim was more than ready to go when she demurely suggested it. He just wanted to end this travesty of a day, sit in a dark room by himself for a while, but his escape was thwarted by a large and belligerent drunk who decided to cut in on their walk out. Cecily seemed excited that there might be a fight over her but Tim couldn't get up enough energy. He pulled his badge, hoping it would be enough to discourage violence, and told the guy to fuck off or he'd arrest him. It looked for a moment like the big guy might do as ordered. He took a step back and thought, reason racing bravado to the boozed brain. But bravado won handily. He lurched forward and grabbed Tim by the jacket.

"Make me," he spat.

Tim laid him out with one quick, violent right hook, coiled muscle and frustration. The drunken heap dropped hard and the bartender called the police.

Two hours later, Tim dropped Cecily at home. She invited him in but he'd had enough, made excuses for leaving and more excuses for the next weekend and drove back to Lexington.

The alarm in his head had him awake at 6am after a couple of hours sleep but it was worth getting up to spend some time with Fischer, even more of a lure when he remembered that last weekend was Cecily's last shift and Fischer would be alone. The drive up was quiet and the place beckoned like an old friend. He thought about applying for Cecily's job. He could sleep in the trailer.

"I told you you wouldn't like her."

Tim was loading a magazine and turned to glare at Fischer. "No, you didn't."

Fischer tried to cover a grin with a frown and ended up smirking. "Yeah, you're right, I didn't. You wouldn't have listened to me anyway, looking at those tight jeans, so I decided not to waste my breath."

"Asshole."

"Dipshit."

"I'm going to get us some more coffee," Tim grumbled and grabbed the empty thermos.

As he wandered back down to the house he could hear Fischer yelling after him, "Yeah sure, you just go right ahead and help yourself to my stuff."


	20. Chapter 20

* * *

 

"What happened to your hand?" Nick pointed at the cut across Tim's knuckles as he passed him an Xbox controller.

This wasn't a planned strategy. Tim didn't go on a lousy date and purposely antagonize a large drunk man just to make a point with Nick but he seized the opportunity that presented itself and ran with it.

"Oh, uh, I got into a fight last night." He exaggerated the tone, but it reflected his thoughts on the whole thing truthfully enough, disgusted.

"Yeah? Cool," Nick breathed, eyes wide looking up at him like he was Steve Nash or Kobe Bryant.

"No, not cool, stupid. The idiot didn't have any brains to fight with so he came at me with fists instead." Tim shook his head and added a dramatic sigh. "Then the police got called and I was stuck waiting around for two hours while they decided the other guy started it and I just stopped it before it went any further. It's not like I wanted a fight."

"But you're a Marshal. Why did the police come?"

"Because fighting is assault; it's not legal. It's not okay to just start beating on someone because they pissed you off, even if you are a Marshal. If I'd started it, they could've arrested me if the other guy decided to press charges."

Nick's face opened into worried. "Really?"

"Uh-huh."

Tim got the first kill, an unusual occurrence and he chalked it up to a distracted opponent.

"I got in a fight last week," Nick said quietly, just for Tim's ears, while he waited for his character to respawn.

"Oh, yeah?" Tim feigned ignorance. "Did some big, drunk idiot come at you, too?"

The reaction was so blasé that Nick relaxed a bit, laughed.

"No," he snorted. "I'm not old enough to go to a bar. I was at Jayden's birthday party last weekend and he just turned ten, like me, and he says that means we're old enough to go to jail now."

Tim choked on his beer, paused the game and turned to look at Nick.

"So that's the landmark for ten, huh? You can finally go to jail. Personally, I always thought driving at sixteen was something to shoot for, not a jail term. Are you planning on going to jail?"

"No!"

"Is Jayden?"

"I don't know. No, I guess." Nick shrugged.

He set down the controller and slid off the couch onto the floor beside Tim. They both were thinking hard.

"I started it, the fight last week," Nick fessed up and turned to look out to the hall, making sure no one was listening.

"I hope it was for something important."

Nick shrugged again. "This kid in my class, he's okay, I guess. His dad took him to an NBA game. He was bragging about it."

"My dad never took me to an NBA game. Then again," Tim mused, "Kentucky doesn't have an NBA team and I wasn't really into basketball. I grew up on a hill. It's hard to play basketball on a hill." He glanced over at Nick in time to see a look that said clearly, _that's just stupid_. Tim kept his expression serious. "You like basketball, don't you?"

Nick shrugged again. "It's okay, I guess."

"It's okay? That's why you have a NBA poster in your room, 'cause it's _okay_?"

Nick looked over slyly. "He's my favorite player on the Grizzlies."

Tim did a frantic search through his memory. "Memphis?"

"Yeah, duh." All sneer.

"You want to get dumped in a puddle again?"

Nick giggled and turned the game back on and shot Tim four times in a row. The last time, when Tim's character was respawning and Nick was waiting to shoot him again, Nick said, "If I went to jail would I get to live with my dad?"

Tim had read through the file, knew all about the car accident, the overdose. It was the kind of situation that afterward people would talk about and say, "Damn shame. Damn shame. What a waste." They'd say it with feeling then get on with their lives while those directly involved had their lives turned inside out, never to be got on with, stuck with the shame. He thought it'd be nice if in the real world, if you made a mistake and somebody died, you could just get a slap on the wrist and the dead person would respawn. No harm; no foul. Fresh chances all around. He ran a hand through his hair, distracted, and Nick shot him again. He watched his character die dramatically in a replay then respawn. He thought he'd better answer the question.

"No, you wouldn't be able to stay with your dad. You'd have to go to a Juvenile Detention Center. They don't put kids in adult penitentiaries." The whole conversation depressed him. He added sarcastically, to lighten it, "They wouldn't dare. All the adult inmates would riot 'cause they'd keep getting their asses kicked at COD by squirts like you."

Nick didn't laugh at the joke. He was still stuck at the first part of the answer. "What if I asked them if I could?"

Deciding to put a quick end to Nick's dangerous hopes, Tim laid it out straight. Paint it in garish truth, Tim thought, whitewash is unfair and cheap.

"Nick, buddy, if you end up in the prison system or in Juvie, you don't get _any_ choices, _none_. You give them all up. You'd _never_ get to see your dad."

Nick was obviously thinking about what Tim said because he let his character get shot and easily. They waited patiently while he respawned.

* * *

"Tim, do we have a problem?"

Tim looked up at Art, standing with his arms crossed authoritatively on his chest, eyes narrowed, mouth grim.

"Uh," Tim stretched it out, thinking hard, eventually deciding there was really only one answer to Art's question. "No?"

"No? You knocked a guy out in a bar. I'd like to know now if this is a hobby of yours."

"No! He came at me, so I defended myself."

"And knocked him out cold."

"And hurt myself more than him. You know, glass jaw." Tim gestured with a fake punch on his own cheek. "Chief, I swear, I just hit him in the sweet spot, a first round KO. _He's_ fine; look at my hand!"

Art glanced down at the damage, unimpressed. "And what were you doing at the bar? Is _that_ a hobby?"

"No." Tim felt a bit righteous being able to say that honestly. And anyway, he preferred drinking at home. "I was wasting an evening."

"Wasting an evening getting wasted," Art suggested.

"Uh-uh. Dead sober. I wasn't drinking at all." he corrected defensively. He threw an angry look sideways at Rachel but she shook her head almost imperceptibly and smiled reassurance. He looked back at his cut knuckles. "Might've been more fun if I was drinking."

"Right, well, in the future, I'd appreciate it if you'd try to stay out of any police reports unless you're arresting somebody."

"Not a problem," Tim replied, all innocence, and held Art's stare. A moment later he flicked his eyes toward the doors, aware of movement in the hall.

"Hey," he said, happy for the distraction, "it's Curly, Larry and Neil."

Art turned his head to see what had caught Tim's attention and watched three men walk into the office. He sighed, dropped his arms, let it out like a curse, "Feds," and sauntered over to meet them.

"Gentlemen, howdy do and welcome to the Lexington Bureau. I'm Chief Mullen. What brings you to our humble office?"

"We were hoping for a word with two of your Deputies," the lead replied. "I'm Special Agent Frasier."

A quick handshake, then Art said, "Any particular two or can I pick?"

"Deputy Brooks and Deputy Gutterson."

"Well, then this must be about Benjamin Corey and Albert Price."

Frasier frowned and nodded. "Your people seem to have a knack for sniffing out the characters in a child pornography ring we're investigating. We keep tripping over each other. I think it's about time we cooperated."

"Cooperated?" Art turned to Rachel, "Hell has frozen over and the Mississippi is flowing with bourbon." He flung up his arms as he spoke, a preacher on the hillside. "Hallelujah!"

Tim smiled behind a hand, every day liking Art more. Rachel stood up and ran interference.

She gave a smile to the guests, more economical than genuine, said, "We'd be more than happy to offer any assistance, especially considering the nature of the criminal activity. What can we do to help?"

"We're interested in why you're interested in Quentin Hill," explained Frasier. "We can't figure out what got you onto him in the first place."

Neil caught Tim's eye and the two worked hard not to laugh, still hurting from Friday, or remembering hurting. School boys.

"Why don't we take this into the conference room?" Art suggested, interested now, too. "Quentin Hill is on my personal Ten Most Wanted list."

Ten minutes and a fresh pot of coffee later, Rachel was explaining, "Deputy Gutterson is convinced that he saw Quentin Hill the night we arrested Randy Sullivan. We're reasonably confident that he escaped with Albert Price and they both ended up at Benjamin Corey's house. They took his Mustang and we tracked it just north of the Tennessee border then tracked them to another stolen car."

"Which you found Price in on the street where Corey lives," Frasier finished.

"Exactly," Rachel concurred.

"Well," said Frasier and sat back in his chair, smug at having new information for them, "you'll be pleased to hear that we have proof that Hill was in that car, too. We found a good print."

Rachel smiled at Tim; he mirrored it. Then Neil smiled at Rachel; Tim blocked it, leaning forward and glaring back at him.

"I can't begin to tell you how happy this makes me, getting confirmation on his identity," Art said, hard flint eyes and a smile of his own but like that of a fox that's caught a scent. "Let's get a warrant out." He rubbed his hands together, giving everyone at the table a split-second glimpse of the dangerous man he truly was.


	21. Chapter 21

* * *

Art cleared their calendars and they sat with the Feds in the conference room for the remainder of the day, comparing notes, cross-referencing names, dates, anything that might help them close the net around Quentin Hill, the last man standing.

"We did a search of Hill's residence in Pensacola yesterday," Frasier informed them.

"And?" Art knew what the answer would be but didn't want to presume. It was too important to him.

"Nothing incriminating. He hasn't been there in a while. We did find receipts for a storage space, though. The team in Florida is going through it as we speak."

Art nodded, accepting. By quitting time they'd exhausted any ideas and agreed to sleep on it.

Frasier closed a folder and tossed it on the pile and rubbed his eyes. "At this point, I suggest we get a BOLO out. He probably already knows we're onto him so there's no advantage to stealth."

"I already did, right after you walked in with a positive ID on him," Art said. There was nothing apologetic in his tone. "I know Quentin Hill. Intelligent man, but no street smarts. He's probably still in Lexington wondering what happened to Price and with no idea how to run. He'll turn up." He added a folder to the pile, turned a murderous look at Frasier. "And I bet you I could guess what's in that storage space: photography equipment, video cameras, computers…"

Frasier watched as Art counted the items off angrily on his fingers. It took him until now, he hadn't given it much thought before, but he finally made the connection between this Art Mullen and the Deputy Mullen on Quentin Hill's original arrest report.

"I'll let you know as soon as I hear from the Florida office," he offered respectfully.

"Thank you," Art replied sincerely, "I'd appreciate that."

Art was courteous despite his mood and helped pack up the files.

"Tim," he called as he walked out of the conference room and into his office, "I need a word." He hooked a finger, beckoning.

Tim hesitated on one foot, a stutter-step. Neil gave him a quick shove as he walked past knocking him off-balance, and chuckled evilly as he headed for the door with the other agents. Wadding up a photocopy of Quentin Hill's picture, Tim twisted around while trying to steady himself and whipped it at the retreating Feds, bouncing it off the back of Neil's head. Rachel picked it up off the floor before Neil could grab it and start a war.

"Tim," Art barked out, exasperated. "Now!" He was tempted to grab Tim by the ear but refrained for the sake of dignity.

"Shut the door," he said gruffly when Tim walked in. "Was that really necessary?"

"Absolutely," Tim replied, straight-faced. "If you don't make the point with him that there are consequences for his actions, there's no end to it. You have no idea what that man is capable of." He pointed backward out of the office at an invisible Neil.

Art sat down heavily in his chair, rubbed his head vigorously, picked up a message left on his desk and tossed it down again without even registering what it said. "When do you finally grow up?" he eventually asked.

"I remember reading a sociology study saying something about maturity in the late 20's for men nowadays. There's progress for you."

"I was being rhetorical," Art snapped. He couldn't decide whether to take Tim seriously or not without Rachel here to guide him. He said his thoughts aloud, "I don't know whether to take you seriously or not without Rachel here to give me the signals."

"I have the same trouble with you," Tim commiserated. "You want me to get her?" He made a motion to stand.

Art caught himself actually considering it but waved Tim down. "No. I think it's time you and I managed on our own. Rachel won't always be here to interpret."

Tim's brows furrowed trying to decide if Art were serious or not. He settled with saying, "I'm glad we had this talk."

"Uh-huh. Well, now that we've got that out of the way there's something I need to ask you. Are you one of those Marshals who's going to want a transfer out of here as soon as you do your required three years?"

"No."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"What's wrong with you, then?"

Tim frowned, looking for the trap. "I like working for you."

"Are you kissing my ass? 'Cause honestly, I'm not in the mood for it today."

"No, it's true," Tim replied, head tilt. "It's one of those horrible truths that you wake up to, you know? Like 'there is no Santa Claus', or 'you didn't come from a stork, your parents had to have sex to have you', or…"

"You can stop right there. I get the picture."

Tim's eyes grinned and he added, "Besides, Dan explained to me what it would be like working in a big office as a new guy. Didn't sound like fun."

Art nodded in agreement. "He's right. And actually, it's Dan I wanted to talk to you about. He's decided to take early retirement."

Tim's disappointment must have shown because Art smiled for the first time that afternoon, a touch of melancholy.

"It was one of his options. He can't come back on active duty after what happened and he can't see sitting at a desk for the next year or so. He's agreed as a favor to stick around for another month, transition his work over, but if he has to go outside the office, _you_ get to go with him." Art made a sour face as he spoke the last part and looked like he was going to protest his own orders. "You were _his_ choice, not mine. I suspect because he thinks you won't coddle him. And I suspect he's right, and that worries me. I've agreed to it but…please, just don't do anything stupid like a repeat of that fiasco at the wrecking yard."

"Okay." Tim nodded looking serious and thoughtful and Art felt better about it, briefly.

"Could you define 'stupid,'" Tim requested, "just so we're clear."

"You can go now," Art said tersely, pointing at the door.

* * *

Tim went for a long run after work. The wind had picked up and he struggled against it up the hills but it worked better than a hot shower and a drink for relieving the tension from the day, though the shower and the drink were nice, too. The time in a chair that afternoon felt like waiting for the gun at the runner's block, only for hours not seconds. Some days, by 5pm he felt like a jack-in-the-box with a broken lid and someone continuously winding.

After the run and the shower and the drink he took some time and made a proper meal and ate it sitting at the table reading through a service manual for Fischer's Dragonuv. He grinned remembering what Fischer had said when he tossed it at him: _Make yourself useful for a change. You do know how to read, don't you?_ Tim had flipped through it quickly and replied with a shrug _: It's got pictures._

He got distracted afterward comparing stats on sniper rifles on the internet, detoured into a comparison of the factory-installed scopes, and four hours later was rubbing his eyes tiredly. He was about to give up the dry reading for the night, past 11pm now, and was grabbing another beer and thinking about his couch when his phone rang.

"Tim?"

Rachel's voice was tense and triggered his nerves to alert. He shut the fridge door empty-handed and forgot about the couch.

"Hey. They find Hill?"

"Nick's missing."

Tim didn't register the information quickly enough for Rachel.

"Tim," she pleaded, urgent, almost yelling, like she would reach through the phone, grab his shirt and shake him if she could. "Did he say anything to you Sunday? Anything that might…? Do you have any idea at all where he might be? We've checked with all of his friends, the school. We've been to all the movie theatres, basketball courts. We don't know where he is. We can't find him. He's not answering his phone."

Tim ran a hand over his mouth, shut his eyes tight, thinking, coming up blank. "I'll be right over," he offered.

He kept thinking while he drove. What was he doing at ten-almost-eleven-years-old? He was pretty independent and that's what worried him most. Curious, rash, but not carefree, not him, and not Nick either. Careless though, definitely careless. Careless and old enough and physically strong enough to take full advantage of the fact. He often thought it was a miracle or some sideline of Darwinian Theory that boys survived into manhood and that the world survived them beyond that. He ran a mental slideshow of everything he'd done since he was ten and wondered that he was alive to wonder about it.

Tim had nothing to offer but support and an extra pair of legs and eyes. He and Rachel split up and did the neighborhood again while Mrs. Brooks waited at the house for the Lexington PD. At 4am he was sitting with Rachel and her mom at the kitchen table drinking coffee, not his kid, but a hollow feeling all the same. He told them stories of the crazy and stupid and incredibly dangerous things he'd done at Nick's age and oddly it made them feel better. It gave them an option to the unthinkable.

At 6am he drove back to his apartment, showered and changed for work, arriving early. Art met him at the door.

"Rachel called this morning," he said, ushering Tim into his office. "You're welcome to go back if you want. I can call if something urgent comes up."

"Honestly, Chief, I don't know what else I can do." Tim couldn't get his hands any farther into his pockets, woebegone, tired and discouraged. "But I'm sure he's just…just running, you know?"

Art looked hard at Tim. "No, I don't know."

Tim dragged his hands free and up to his face, hiding it for a moment. "Remind me never to have kids," he mumbled through his fingers.

"I recall saying that once," Art reminisced, "Never say never." He looked at the picture of his family on his desk and said a silent 'thank you'. "Now go get yourself a coffee, you look like you need a pot, then you get back on the Hill case. If Rachel calls, do whatever she asks and fast. I give you permission in advance."

Tim nodded thinking it was good advice, all of it.

* * *


	22. Chapter 22

* * *

 

There was no hope of concentrating. Tim had spread out in the conference room again and was reading through files and reports but nothing registered. His thoughts kept drifting to the conversation he had had with Nick on Sunday evening.

At noon Art walked in, noisily rapping on the door and jarring Tim out of a dream. The hill he was running up was endless and continuously steeper and he tripped awake, scrambling to keep a grip on something and stop his downward slide. He wasn't quite aware and pulled half the files onto the floor. Art wordlessly bent down and helped collect them up then sat in a chair next to him and eyed him thoughtfully, saw through the busy motions of tidying the files to the embarrassment and wanted to say something to reassure him. He decided that ignoring it would be best today.

"Timing is everything," Art said, sitting back.

It was a vague statement but the tone was clear, jaded resignation. Tim dug at his eyes, trying to shovel out the sand. He tensed a bit, anticipating that Art was going to send him back for a full psych evaluation.

"A man fitting Quentin Hill's description broke into a house last night, tied up the couple living there and stole their car," Art explained in a monotone, "and kidnapped their 8-year-old son."

Tim twitched, just once, looking for action, then stared at the mess of folders and wondered if the day could possible get worse.

"They got free about an hour ago, called the police. We've got a state-wide amber alert going. If it were me, I'd run straight north into Canada, it's closer than Mexico, hide out in a big city, Toronto maybe, or head a little west into the prairies where it's quieter," Art mused. "I certainly wouldn't kidnap a child, trip an amber alert and put the entire law enforcement community and the public on the lookout for me."

"He'll head straight for Florida," Tim said without thinking.

Art smiled. "You'll make a good investigator, Tim, if you stick it out. You've got good instincts." He heard through Dan about Tim's trip to the recruiting office, bent over to grab a missed report he spied behind Tim's chair and let his statement sink in. He grunted coming back up. "I'm thinking along the same lines. I've asked the state police and the locals in south Kentucky to be especially alert, concentrate their search on the roads crossing into Tennessee. And you," Art pointed a finger at Tim who sat up a little straighter, waiting for orders, "are doing a prisoner transport this afternoon with Dan."

"What!?"

"Tim," Art said, no accusation, "this isn't punishment. The office has to keep running. We can't shut down the courts for the day. You're exhausted and Dan's experienced. He's also waiting."

Tim stood up.

"But before you go, you'll want to hear what else I have to say."

Tim sat again.

"I talked to Rachel just now. One of Nick's friends finally broke down and confessed that he helped Nick plan to run away yesterday after school. Loaned him a sleeping bag and gave him some food." He nodded at Tim. "You called it. You told me this morning he was running."

Tim's shoulders slumped. He didn't seem too happy about being right and Art looked hard at him again, trying to x-ray through the Marshal into the man. He did some quick math and sighed when his calculations told him that Tim was closer to Nick's age than his. Between Dan Shaw and Tim, Art was feeling old, old, old.

"Rachel's on a rampage," he added encouragingly, false cheerfulness. "She'll find him."

Tim stood again, paused a minute, clearing the fog. "He's probably gone to see his dad. He mentioned him to me on the weekend, kept bringing it up. He's in a prison in Tennessee. I guess Nick'd know that, right?"

"How did _you_ know that?" Art inquired, aware that Rachel kept that lid on tight.

"Nick told me the first time I met him that his dad was in prison." Tim ran a hand through his hair, looked guiltily over at his boss. "And I looked up his file after."

"Does Rachel know you know?"

Tim shook his head.

Art got up wearily, considered all the angles and made some decisions. "Well, we'll make efficient use of taxpayers' money today. I'll add Nick's photo to the alert, send it along to the roadblocks set up to the south and then call Rachel and tell her what your thoughts are on it. Hopefully she's too distracted to wonder how you figured out as much."

Tim started stacking the files.

"Leave it. I'll deal with it. Your guy's supposed to be back in Lexington by 5pm for a word with his lawyer before court tomorrow. We're already late. I let you sleep in."

* * *

Dan drove; Tim tried to sleep some more. They went through a roadblock on the ramp to the interstate heading out of Lexington, a second one when they turned off onto the Mountain Parkway. After that they passed signs periodically, amber alert information flashing, each one a reminder to Tim of their failure. By the time they turned off the parkway onto the road to Inez, Tim was in an emotional hole that he'd dug himself, fatigue, futility and worry compounded and pulled him down.

Dan finally reached across and slapped a back-handed 'hey' on his shoulder.

"Tim, stop it," he complained. "I don't appreciate being upstaged in my misery. I can't feel sorry for myself when you're looking so depressed."

"I'm just tired."

"Sure you are." Dan let a few miles pass. "Listen, you can't let a case like this get to you. There'll be more, I promise, and worse."

"This is a pep talk, right? Just so I'm clear. You're doing a fine job, by the way. Keep it up. I may get suicidal yet."

Tim was angry now, an easy lateral move from depressed. He lashed out at Dan, glared over at him. But Dan wasn't having any of it and stopped trying to cheer him up and Tim retreated back into his hole.

He stared out the window. His mood was a slippery slope into a backward plunge, supplying the shovel to dig unrelentingly into his past, remembering only the shit, the dead, the fear, the worn-down look in the face of a friend, the same worn-down look in the face of an enemy. Worst of all was the despair in the unknown face of a stranger, neither friend nor enemy, only a potential, and Tim unable to tell if it was their emotion he was seeing or just a projection of his own. He crossed his arms, hugging himself, sinking down a little lower in his seat. He thought he'd run away from all that but now he was seeing it here too, in Rachel's face, Nick's, Dan's.

He realized, an epiphany, that he had no enemies anymore. He wondered if that was a problem for him, if maybe he missed it, the stimulus and simplicity of having real enemies. Here in Kentucky he was probably his own worst enemy and how do you fight that? Even Quentin Hill wasn't an enemy, not a real threat, not to him. He wondered if Neil was up for another good drunk this weekend.

He felt a familiar tug, the same feeling he had when he entered the downward spiral then signed his papers and walked away from the Army. There was no way he was going there again and he mentally hauled himself back to the present, grinding his gears in an effort to change his focus, grasping finally at an old habit as a distraction. He started categorizing what he saw outside, gathering intel on the local population. He let his eyes take in the late Kentucky winter along the road and he started his list. Dwelling, outbuilding, large door for large machinery, well-worn grooves with no grass, recently used, initials A.W. Wells on mailbox, no farm animals, crop farm? More miles passed. Debris on the side of road, red plastic, rusted metal pipe, foot-and-a-half, two-inch diameter, rubber tire, torn, cigarette packaging, garbage bag, unknown content, heavy, not moving on a windy day. More miles passed. Field, plowed crop, abandoned dwelling, lock on gate.

"Shit!" Tim sat up abruptly, looking back. "Stop the car! Stop the car!"

Dan skidded to a halt and Tim had his seatbelt off and was out and running back the way they had come before Dan had a chance to ask why. The older Marshal followed Tim's lead, pulled over to the shoulder, parked, stepped out onto the road, heart racing, hand on his sidearm, strode quickly to the back of the car, watching, cautious. Tim leaped the ditch and stopped running at a tree fifty or so yards back. Dan squinted and spotted a figure sitting on the ground next to it. The younger Marshal made some exaggerated hand motions then fell onto the ground dramatically, a pratfall, ending up lying flat on his back. The figure stood up, a boy by the size of him, took a step toward Tim and kicked his boot. The boot hooked up quickly, caught the boy's legs and tripped him and he landed in a heap on the ground beside Tim. Dan could hear laughter jangling down the road toward him and he smiled.

Relaxed now, he pulled out his phone and dialed Art. "Hey Chief," he drawled. "Good news for a change. Call Deputy Brooks. I think we've found her nephew."

* * *

Dan strolled leisurely up the shoulder of the road and stepped across the drainage ditch to stand beside the boys sitting in the grass. He caught them mid-conversation.

"No, I promise. She won't kill you," Tim stated, holding out his phone to Nick. "She'll probably start crying then ground you for years. I can't speak for your aunt though. I mean, she does have a gun. Two actually."

Nick took the phone reluctantly and called home. Tim looked up at Dan, lifted an eyebrow and the two of them grinned contentedly.

"Gives a whole new meaning to prisoner transport," Dan commented. "Normally it's the world's most boring and annoying job."

After Nick spoke with his grandmother, he passed the phone back to Tim who reassured her that everything was fine. He then grabbed Nick's bag and tossed it and the boy into the back seat of the car.

"I'm sure there are regulations against taking a kid for a ride-along on a prisoner transport," said Dan looking over the roof of the car at Tim.

"Are you going to the prison?" Nick asked leaning out. "That's where I was going. Can I go with you?"

"No," Dan replied firmly.

"Buddy," Tim added, "your dad's not at Big Sandy."

"Yes, he is!"

Tim looked at him, trying to understand the confidence. "How do you know he is?"

"Why else would Aunt Rachel and Grandma move us here to Lexington?" He gave Tim the _you must be stupid_ look. Tim was becoming familiar with it.

"We passed a nice big pond back a ways," he threatened, pointing. "It's not exactly a puddle, but I'd be happy to drop you in it."

Nick giggled, happy to be found.

"Well Tim," said Dan, "it's your call. What do we do?"

Tim thought for a second then said, "Let's go on to the pen. It's not much farther anyway."

Nick whooped from the back seat as Tim's phone rang. It was Rachel. He reached in and swatted Nick, motioning to him to quiet down then finally walked a ways down the road to speak with Rachel undisturbed.


	23. Chapter 23

* * *

 

Tim got on the phone to the penitentiary after he spoke with Rachel. He made a request to the prison administration, gave them a quick run-down of the unusual situation and got the okay to bring Nick through the main gates. Once inside he asked to see the warden. The warden was a busy man but he was curious and walked the distance from his office to meet the Marshals and talk to their tag-a-long. He pulled Tim aside.

"We need a letter from a parent or guardian if we're going to let him visit an inmate," he stated. "I'm sorry, but I won't budge on that, not even for you Marshals."

"That's okay. He's not visiting anyone," Tim assured him. "He just needs to figure that out. He thinks his dad's inside, ran away from home to come see him." Tim shrugged, leaned in to whisper, "This is the closest prison to his house. His dad's actually in a pen in Tennessee."

"So why bring him in then?"

"I want him to have proof, so he doesn't run away again, show up at your gate and scare his grandmother sh…" Tim swiped a hand over his mouth and wiped away the word with it. "…witless," he amended.

The warden considered the young Marshal then walked over to Nick, stuck out a hand and introduced himself, surprising them all, even the prison guards who stood uneasily watching the drama with matching hiked eyebrows.

"I understand you're looking for your daddy, young man," the warden said in a serious and professional tone. "What's his name?"

Nick was frozen to the floor. Now that he was here, his feelings were gluing his mouth shut.

"Clinton Ross," Tim supplied.

"Clinton Ross," the warden repeated thoughtfully. "Well, why don't you Marshals get on with your Marshal duties. Nick and I are going to check through the inmate registry for his daddy." The warden nodded reassuringly to Tim. "He'll meet you by the gate."

Tim looked over at Nick, smiled to lend confidence. "You okay with that?"

Nick nodded and followed the warden out of the room.

"Well, hell," said Dan after the door closed. "We hit a soft spot with him."

One of the prison guards concurred, "No shit."

Dan and Tim stood there a moment, each waiting for the other to lead the way. Grins cracked eventually when they realized that neither of them knew where to go. It was a first time to Big Sandy for them both.

"Fellows," Dan addressed the prison guards, "could you point us to…"

"You're here for Sean Delaney?"

Tim scrambled to get the paperwork out of his pocket, patted the creases out and passed it over.

"Did they give you that shiny star just for showing up to Marshals School?" the guard asked sarcastically then turned to his coworker. "Maybe I'll try for the Marshals Service."

Dan was too experienced to be embarrassed, just let the grin melt into a chuckle.

* * *

Tim took the prisoner's arm and led him to the car, talking in a low voice as he walked.

"We've got company for the ride," he said, nodding at the figure of Nick waiting, in view now at the guard house. "If you do anything to upset him, I will beat the shit out of you. Are we clear?"

The inmate turned to sneer, 250 pounds of head-shaved, bulked-up, hard-core, shit-kicking meanness. "I'd love you to try."

Stepping in front of his prisoner Tim held out a hand and stopped the procession, looked up at him squarely. "Then make me happy and test my short fuse right now."

Sean Delaney snorted like a bull, made a show of checking out the high walls, barbed wire, bird's nests with rifles. "They'd shoot me if I did anything stupid in range of those towers."

"And I'll shoot you if you do something stupid out of range of those towers," Dan added, stepping into the standoff. "So just don't do anything stupid."

Tim sat in the back with Sean Delaney, angled slightly, watching every move, every twitch, every breath taken by his prisoner. Both he and Dan were on high-alert, having Nick in the car made the duty even tenser than it had to be. Prisoner transport was always distasteful, riding for hours with someone who had every reason to hate you and you them. It was best carried out in silence. But Nick had no experience with the job and didn't understand the rules, couldn't understand that no one in the car had anything to say to anyone else that would make for pleasant conversation.

Nick knocked softly at the wordless gloom and distrust that had settled thickly like a wall. "He wasn't there."

It came out like the last bit of air in an old balloon, disappointed and tired. The adventure had lost its purpose, lost its fun. He had set out yesterday with a goal and today it was nowhere in sight.

"That can't be right." Nick knocked again, shifted in his seat. The three men persisted in their silence.

"He _has_ to be in there. That man lied to me, didn't he?"

Nick, betrayed by something or someone but unsure what or whom, turned around to look at Tim, the closest thing he could get to a father at this moment, and focused his anger at him. "Why didn't you tell me he wasn't there?"

"I did," Tim reminded him, with a warning look at Delaney to keep his mouth shut. "It's just you were determined not to believe me."

"Well, why isn't he there? Did they move him?" Nick's voice was getting louder, knocking harder.

Tim wouldn't answer. In his mind there wasn't anything he could do to make this better. He held Nick's gaze openly and waited for him to run out of steam.

"Why can't I see him?" Nick demanded, pounding now, wanting in where they were hiding his dad.

Dan came to Tim's rescue. "Nick, I think these are questions for your aunt or your grandmother."

"He probably is there and he doesn't want to see me!" He was close to tears now.

"What's his name, kid?"

Tim stiffened.

"If he's in Big Sandy," Delaney continued, his deep voice daring, watching for Tim to react, "I could tell you. I'd know."

Tim hesitated. They didn't train for this at Glynco, not in the Rangers, either. He had no idea what to do. The only option open to him was to trust human nature and that just didn't feel comfortable to him anymore. Before Tim could figure out how to handle this, Nick twisted around in his seat, quick to slip his hope into the pause.

"Clinton Ross. He's my dad." He was desperate for something to take away for all his efforts and grasped at the offer.

Sean Delaney turned his attention back to the boy, held Nick's gaze, gathered up his eyebrows like he was concentrating hard, slowly shook his head. "I'd know if he was there," he said. "I know everyone inside. He's not there. I got no reason to lie to you. And if he _was_ there, he'd definitely want to see you." He switched up to a slow nod. "He'd _definitely_ want to see you. That's the way dads are."

Nick's face lightened a little, ready to believe every word. Tim's face darkened; he hated the lie. Maybe Nick's dad _was_ like that; maybe he'd want to see him, but maybe not. He hated the lie. It would make the truth that much harder when it came.

"So where is he then?" Nick asked Tim, pleaded.

Tim looked away, out the window, "Let's talk to Aunt Rachel about it. Okay?"

* * *

Rachel and Mrs. Brooks were waiting at the courthouse. After squeezing Nick so tightly he complained, Rachel pulled Tim in for a hug. He accepted it awkwardly, blushing, then continued upstairs with Dan and left the family to sort through their emotions.

"Gentlemen," Art called, "you're late. I've been dodging calls from the lawyer since five." He arched backward, his hands supporting his lower back. "Good thing I stretched first."

"Anything yet on Quentin Hill?" Tim asked, looping his jacket on his chair then flopping in it himself.

A pout and a shake of the head was Art's reply. "Make sure you leave your phone on tonight, though. Someone'll call you if he turns up."

Dan followed Art into his office, the two men talking amicably as they went. Tim watched them through the glass. Art sat and pulled out his bottle, waved it invitingly for him. Tim smiled and stood to join them but was stalled halfway to the door by Rachel.

"Tim."

He stopped, turned, head tilt. "Don't tell me he's run away again."

Rachel was relaxed enough now to grin half-heartedly. "No. My mother's got a gun on him."

They chuckled.

"Let me buy you a burger and a beer?"

Tim blinked. "Shouldn't you be with them tonight?"

"Uh-uh. I don't trust myself not to yell. I'll let him and his grandma hash it out." She pointed at the exit and cocked an eyebrow.

"Sure," Tim replied. "I'd love a burger and I'd love a beer. Are you trying to get me fat?"

"No, Art is. Do you have any idea how many calories are in an ounce of whiskey?"

She was peering around him at Art, waving her hand to say _no, thank you_. Apparently he was being generous with his stash tonight. She pointed between her and Tim and mimed eating. Tim turned in time to see Art make a shooing gesture and he put all but two glasses back on the shelf.

They walked to the bar and Rachel listened while Tim gave her the details of the afternoon then she sat quietly in the booth pulling on her ear. Tim smirked.

"What?" she said tersely, confused.

He mimicked her, pulling on his ear.

"Tcha," she snorted and dropped her hand quickly. "God, you're annoying. I brought you here to say thank you so I guess that means I have to put up with you."

"Thank you? For what?"

"For finding Nick." She glared at him, couldn't believe he could be that obtuse.

"All I did was happen to be on the same road he was."

"And you _saw_ him. You wouldn't have seen him, Tim, if you hadn't taken the time to get involved before."

"Maybe."

" _Maybe_ ," she repeated huffily.

He liked her sharp and pointed and no nonsense; didn't like her owing him. He poked around a little to provoke her. "Not only did I _see_ him, but I stopped and picked him up, _and_ took him to a federal penitentiary _and_ let him have a conversation with a convicted felon - armed robbery and murder one, no less - _and_ filled him up with donuts and soda on the drive back." He grinned at her. "I am an amazing role model. Do you think Big Brothers would take me on?"

"How many donuts?"

"Six. We bought a dozen. Me, Dan and the convicted felon shared the other half."

She closed her eyes in disapproval. "Probably not."

They split up a couple hours and a few beers later. Rachel promised Tim he could drop Nick in another puddle the following Sunday. He rode the elevator to his floor leaning on the back wall, nodded off once on the way up. He trudged down the hall, exhausted. The door to the party apartment opened a crack then wide as he walked past. He allowed himself a glare at the occupant, a young woman. He'd seen her once or twice since moving in, heard her more often and usually in the wee hours and loud. She smiled and it looked like an invitation but he didn't stop. She was one of those girls – too much make-up, too many friends, too many empty sentences, too much work.

"Hey," she called. "You want a drink?"

It took a few more steps for him to decide he didn't really feel like sitting alone in his apartment this evening. Against his better judgment, he turned and walked back.


	24. Chapter 24

* * *

 

The phone call came as Art said it might, almost as though he had willed it, breaking into the quiet shortly before 6am. Tim had snuck back to his apartment a few hours before that and fallen asleep on his couch, a glass of bourbon untouched on the table. He woke in a daze.

"Gutterson," he mumbled into his phone.

"Tim?" It was Art. "I'm heading to the office. Meet me there ASAP."

Tim answered a military affirmative; Art had already hung up. Within a half hour Art, Rachel, and Tim and his rifle were speeding south on the interstate.

It had rained all night but the clouds were separating now to let in the early morning sun. Winter was tired and old and giving up more easily these days. The trees were soft in the morning glow, the edges blurred like a water color painting, like the sun was trying to set fire to last year's sodden leaves at the base of the trunks and was filling the branches with smoke. Another few weeks and the new leaves would start showing and the smoke would turn from gray-brown to green. But this morning winter was still moaning, making a last effort, and it blocked the warm rays with gray clouds and locked in the chill for another day. Tim shivered in the back seat when the shadow finally passed over the highway and covered the car.

The roadblocks south had smoked out Quentin Hill. The man was making a night-time run for the border into Tennessee. The state police had given chase cautiously, carefully, considerate of his young passenger, and forced him onto side roads and over hastily laid spike strips and Hill's car had limped along to a narrow bridge and finally run the rims to the ground. Hill, the man Art described as a wolf in sheep's clothing, soft hands, soft face, had acquired a handgun but whether he'd acquired the guts to use it was unknown and the law enforcement team grouped together at one end of the bridge were keeping their distance and discussing their options.

Art tried to talk him out, but Quentin Hill was the captain of this sinking ship and he'd steered it onto the shoals and refused to believe all was lost. He was not going back to prison and he was not stepping out of the safety of the car and he was not giving up his one bargaining chip and he was not considering any choices but the siren song of getting free and clear. They convinced him to roll down the windows so they could talk in earnest about getting him another car and Art sent his sniper to set up as they negotiated.

Tim ran the hill fast to the rock outcropping he'd noticed from the road, set up and lay on the ground ignoring the dampness, settling his cap on backward. Through the scope he could see them clearly now, the boy and the man. They were both emotional, salt-water faces from the tears streaking down their cheeks, the innocent and the guilty. Tim tasted bile as flashes of memories kicked at his stomach, another boy and another man. He was suddenly covered in a cold sweat and he took his hand off the trigger to rub it against his side, warming it. Then he did the unthinkable, took his eyes off the target and rubbed at them trying to push away the images intruding. They wouldn't be ready for him yet anyway. He made the excuse and it sounded good to him; they were still negotiating a happy ending down on the bridge. Maybe they wouldn't need him at all.

He put his eye back to the scope and watched as Hill shook his head violently, repeatedly, then sank down farther behind the boy he was holding tightly to, like a life-raft. They were flotsam and jetsam, awash at sea and a storm coming and no safe port. Hill knew it and he was getting desperate, a drowning man, pulling them all down with him, the boy, the police, Tim, everyone. The go ahead came, spoken coldly through the earpiece, Art's voice, without hesitation, "Tim, take him down." He thumbed off the safety.

The calm up on the hill felt like a betrayal, a cool denial of his turmoil. Tim fought with his memories and waited for the split-second to show itself and open a path for his bullet. He looked through the scope to the bridge, into the car, to the man and the boy, through the scope down the dry mountain to the shamble village, to the house on the edge with the red blanket hanging in the window, through the open door into the room, to the supplies on the table for a homemade bomb, the sack of rice, some money, and the boy crying, and the man moving his head slightly, enough for the width of a bullet.

Tim fired, staying with it for the follow-through on the trigger before turning to his side and throwing up while the old feelings and images rushed up and crashed over him, left him struggling for breath. Then the calm on the hill came back in a wave, pushing him into the present. When he sat up he felt himself starting to come undone after all this time, miles and years between, and it scared him. He clamped down hard on his emotions, allowing only a short sob, cut off. Sliding the rifle over to his lap he flipped on the safety, then pressed his hands against his head, sat cross-legged and rocked himself gently, letting the storm pass. He spat out the taste of vomit and dug down in his pockets for something to replace it with. Eventually he stood, stumbled down the hill still cold and shaky, sea-legs on land, pulled his cap back around and the brim down hard over his face.

Rachel met him at the bottom, peered up under his hat at him, the grim smile dropped. "Are you okay? You don't look so good."

"It's Thursday," he mumbled, continued past her and sat heavily on a rock.

She followed him, passed him her coffee, two cream, two sugar. She liked it sweet. He took it gratefully and had a few sips.

"Thanks," he said, handing it back but she pressed it toward him, insistent.

"You finish it." She waited until he had then asked again, "Tim? Are you okay?"

He looked at her steadily. "I'm fine, really. Just a little cold and wet, as usual."

He laughed. She wasn't convinced and reached out and squeezed his shoulder.

Art spied them and wandered over taking a seat beside Tim, spat his disgust on the ground and said, "Well, I'll be sleeping better tonight. Thanks, Tim. That was another good shot. I'm starting to understand why SOG wanted you so badly." He rested both hands on his knees and took a deep breath of the air, a hint of spring. "I know I shouldn't feel this happy about it, but fuck it. I am. This could've been a whole lot of hurt for a whole lot of people if we hadn't stopped it. Good work all around."

The day seemed tied to Art's mood and the sun found a hole in the clouds and broke through again.

"Well, there's some optimism for you," Art commented. "We may get summer yet."

It lasted a minute then slipped back. Art stood, exaggerating the effort with a groan, and walked over to help deal with the wreckage.

Another car pulled up and Art changed his route to meet it. Neil stepped out and waved in a patently un-FBI manner. Rachel tried again to peer under the brim of Tim's cap, chewed on the inside of her cheek thinking then turned decisively and headed over to talk to Art and Neil.

"Good morning," she greeted him.

"Sorry I'm late," said Neil. "Everyone is spread out everywhere with search warrants, confiscating computers that went through Corey's business for repairs. We've made seven more arrests. You got Hill?"

"He's dead," Art said succinctly.

Neil paused and looked over their heads to the scene on the bridge. "Oh. Frasier wanted to be here but I told him you wouldn't need us." He smiled ingenuously. "Then I volunteered to come down and keep an eye on you, just in case. I figured you rather have me than him."

Art laughed at the honesty.

Rachel smiled along pleasantly then slipped in a suggestion, "Since you're not needed here, why don't you make yourself useful and take Tim for breakfast. I think he's feeling a little under-the-weather."

Art and Neil both turned to look over at Tim who had just finished breaking down his rifle and was putting it away in the trunk. Rachel used the distraction to nudge Neil and try to get her concern across wordlessly.

Neil was quick to catch on. "No problem. I'll go collect him. I know how grumpy he is when he's hungry. I haven't eaten yet, either. I'll drop him back at the office for you."

Rachel watched him stride down and try to cajole a reaction out of Tim who was leaning unimpressed against Art's car with his arms crossed tightly and his cap still a barrier to the world. Neil finally gave up, grabbed him by the jacket and pulled him off the car, turned him around and pushed him toward Rachel and Art.

"Is he okay?" Art asked. His grin turned down at the corners to concern and he focused a piercing look at Rachel. "Is there a problem?"

"He missed his breakfast, Chief. He's a growing boy," she jested lightly.

"Rachel, I think you're tired. You're getting your boys mixed up. That's Tim, not Nick. Nick's at home with your mother," Art explained patiently then frowned. " _He is_ at home with your mother, right?"

"Yes, Chief, he's at home with my mother."

"Okay then, well, I realize they both act like ten-year-olds, but I'm pretty sure Tim has finished growing."

Rachel gave him the unimpressed, raised-eyebrow expression that he enjoyed so much. "Thank you for clearing that up for me. Now, is there anything we should be doing down there?" She gestured behind her, turned and walked toward the bridge, away from Neil and Tim, and Art followed like she knew he would. She wanted to talk to Tim in private before Art got a good look at him.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: The story behind this story is loosely based on a real incident that happened to a Canadian soldier in Afghanistan. He was given a Dishonourable Discharge when he reported seeing the rape of a young boy up the chain of command after having a breakdown. He took it to court and won an Honourable Discharge. A small amount of justice served.

* * *

 

She tried a dozen times after dinner to reach him, calling his phone, hoping to reassure herself that he was okay. He seemed okay when she got back to the office with Art. Neil had, as promised, taken Tim for breakfast then dropped him back in Lexington. He seemed okay throughout the remainder of the morning and the afternoon, wading in to help with the paperwork. He seemed okay when most of the office went out at the end of the day, all of them crowding into Art's favorite bar to celebrate, catching the Chief's good mood. And he seemed okay, a few beers and a couple of bourbon in and exchanging quips with Dan, when she walked over to say 'goodnight.' But after pacing around her mother's kitchen after dinner and rehashing the day with her, she started to worry, remembering Tim's face under the hat.

"For heaven's sake, just call him if it'll make you feel better. I'm tired of the pacing." Mrs. Brooks picked Rachel's phone up off the counter and grabbed her daughter's hand and slapped it in her grasp with a 'tcha'.

When Tim didn't pick up, Rachel drove into town and banged on his door. And when there was no answer there she waded back into the bar, noisy now and not as friendly, filled with a different crowd from the one she'd left behind earlier. She started hunting in the corners for him and found him finally, sitting alone in the shadowy end at the bar. A glass of bourbon half done possessively cupped in one hand, all he needed was a lit cigarette burned to the filter wedged between two fingers in the other to round out the picture of down and out. She settled onto the empty stool beside him. Everyone else in the bar, the Marshal's party all gone home, was keeping their distance.

"Jesus, Tim," she scolded, looking at her watch and doing a quick calculation, "just how drunk are you?"

"Somewhat," he answered around the glass, taking a sip and refusing to look at her after the first quick acknowledgement.

She was concerned to see him sipping, a sure sign that he'd been at it a while. She sighed and brought her hand up to her forehead, rubbing it worriedly. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed…I thought...You seemed fine with it."

Her voice trailed off and she hesitated and drew back when he turned to her finally, a perplexed look on his face. Maybe that's how he gets when he's drunk, she thought. Some men get mean, some get stupid, some get maudlin, perhaps some, like her ex-Army Ranger, get perplexed.

"What are you talking about?" he asked her, squinting a bit in the spotlight of her attention.

"The shooting today. I'm sorry. I should've…" Should've what? She didn't know. She had no experience with this.

He furrowed his eyebrows together, tried to work out why she was here then raised them slowly as he figured it out. "Oh. Shit, no. That?" He almost laughed. Almost. " _Please_. I could've shot that asshole all day, except I'd run out of ammo."

She might have been satisfied then and gone home if his body language didn't scream out that everything was not okay, making an absolute lie of his flippant response.

"What happened on the hill this morning, Tim?" she pressed.

"Nothing."

"Bullshit."

"It's nothing. It's just the kid that's…Do you think he…?" Start. Stop. "Aw, shit. What does it matter?" He sunk his exploding head in his hand and rested it all on his elbow on the bar, too much to think about drunk, settling with perplexed.

But Rachel was still thinking and something clicked. "Tim, did you get the go ahead? Did you shoot that man in Afghanistan, the one with the boy that you told me about?"

He looked over at her. Ate the truth down in a quick gulp and settled for a nod, barely there. But the truth wouldn't stay down today, too near to the surface. It boiled up, angry and reckless.

"Yeah, I shot him." Tim wet his lips nervously. " _Without_ orders," he dared her, almost yelled it out. "I just went ahead and shot him. Made a fucking mess of him with the rifle I had. I couldn't watch it another day."

He slid all the way down onto the bar until his head was resting on it and stuck his arms out, wrists together, toward her. "You'd better arrest me, Marshal." His voice was muffled, deadened in his sleeve.

Rachel glanced around hoping no one else was listening then reached over and took one of his hands and held it in both of hers.

"A lot like today, then, I guess?"

When the cuffs didn't come out, he took his hand back, drawing himself in tightly again, pulled himself upright and finished off his drink.

"What happened to that boy?" she asked. She kept her eyes on his face looking for something that might slip past, but he just looked tired.

"How the fuck should I know?" he said, not angry with her, angry with the day, which day though was unclear. "He probably stepped on an old Russian mine or joined the Taliban and maybe he's the one that shot one of my buddies a few weeks ago or maybe he got sick and starved to death over the winter. It's not like I was going to stick around out there to see what happened next. Never would've made it back home to tell you the sorry tale."

Rachel sat patiently through the tirade. She knew from experience not to take the tone personally, not to take anything personally coming from a meth-head or a drunk Marshal.

"I'll tell you something," he started up again. "I try to convince myself that I made it better for him. But you know what? I figure…I figure I probably took away the only source of income for his entire family. And that's what it all is, when it's like that and you're one of those…those people that no one cares about. You just move from one hell to another. It's fucking hopeless."

She didn't say anything, all the words and consolation and sympathy were cheap tape. They wouldn't fix anything.

"I can't go back," he said simply.

"Then don't."

He waved to the bartender.

"What are you doing?" Rachel demanded, but softly.

"Ordering another drink," he stated, "obviously." He rolled his eyes a little too vigorously and she was afraid he'd drop off the back of his stool like a character in a bad comedy.

"No, you're not. I'm taking you home." The bartender arrived and looked at Tim expectantly. "He needs to settle up now," Rachel said, no discussion.

Tim huffed and dug out his wallet. She watched him fumble with the bills for a minute before she finally reached over and took them from him and paid the tab.

* * *

When Tim didn't show up for work the next morning, Rachel told Art that he had called in sick, some kind of stomach flu. Art was properly concerned and nodded, not buying a word of it.

* * *

Fischer didn't rush out of bed this Sunday morning to open up, it was raining hard enough to chase away any shooters and it felt good under the old blankets. He could just tell, feeling so content hunkered down in his bed, that it was cold out and gray and dreary and damp and drizzling. When he had to pee badly enough he dragged himself out of bed, cursing the icy floor until he found his slippers. He shuffled into the kitchen behind the office and put on a pot of coffee and cranked up the heat and fed the dog and let her out then sat at the table with the mug steaming and groaned loudly as he stretched. He heard the first shot on the second sip. He set down the mug carefully and sat still, listening. The crack of the second shot was unmistakable. He glanced at the clock, thinking there was only one person that could be.

He dug around in a cupboard and pulled out his old thermos and put the rest of the coffee in it, black, and set it by the door. Then he went back to his bedroom, sat on his bed and pulled on an extra pair of wool socks. They felt good and he grabbed his extra sweater, too, his jacket, his hat, his boots, all the while listening to the rhythmic, insistent firing of the rifle, a coded message that he would read if he could. When he was ready he stood a moment looking at the patchy rug he was standing on in front of the door, stood thinking, then stepped out onto the porch then into the rain and trudged up the hill to the trailer.

Tim was prone, lying on a waterproof sheet, the rain streaming down the back of his jacket in a lone line from his shoulders, finding the easiest path home, back to the earth, dropping off his waist, some soaking into the bit of plaid shirt showing underneath and into his jeans. It was a sure thing that he was cold and wet by now, not so sure a thing whether he noticed. His hands though were warm and dry in a pair of combat gloves, working the bolt, aiming, firing.

Fischer pulled his waterproof jacket down over his bum and sat carefully on a log, cut up for the purpose and rolled near the line. He unscrewed the lid on the thermos but didn't take it all the way off or the rain would get in. He held it out.

"I always knew you were stupid. Didn't have to get me out of bed on a shit day like this to prove it."

Tim's head twisted at the sound of Fischer's voice but his face stayed hidden behind the hood. He pushed up and sat back on his knees and held out a gloved hand for the thermos. Fischer pressed it firmly into Tim's grasp so it wouldn't slip.

"Thanks." Nothing else. He lifted the lid and let the steam escape to mingle with the clouds from his breath and sipped carefully.

Fischer wiped the water off his nose and pulled his hood farther forward.

"I read about it in the paper," he offered his brand of understanding. "Figured it had to be you. Who else, right?"

The hood twisted his way again and Tim handed back the thermos. There was a long pause while the two men endured the rain, Fischer because he knew he was needed, Tim because it felt good to feel, even if the feeling was only wet and cold. The rain came down harder then, Tim could hear it picking up momentum first before he realized he couldn't see through it any distance anymore. He felt it too, heavier on him. He peered past the rain drops trying to make out targets down range but it started to blur after a couple hundred yards and he reached over with his thumb and flicked on the safety. He stood then, flipped the ground sheet over the rifle and took the step over to the log and sat down next to the man sharing the rain and the coffee.

Fischer caught a glimpse of Tim's face this time as he passed the thermos over. He unzipped his jacket and reached a hand into the inside pocket, fished out a flask and passed it over as a chaser.

"If you don't like bourbon, you can't shoot here anymore."

Tim's lips twitched. He took a pull and passed it back and said, "You're so full of shit."

"That's no way to speak to your elders."

"Sorry, I meant, you're so full of shit, _old man_. And lucky for you I like bourbon. You'd miss me."

Fischer hawed and slapped Tim on the back. The sound his hand made when it connected was an entire page description of 'wet' and the two men started chuckling.

"Grab your gear and come on back to the house. I'll put on some more coffee."

"Yeah, okay."

"You eat eggs?"

"I eat anything."

"You and my dog."

* * *


	26. Chapter 26

* * *

 

"'Bout time you showed up again," Fischer snarled. He was bent over the table in the trailer, squinting back and forth between the mess of gun parts spread out in front of him and a manual on his lap, his glasses nowhere in sight. It was exactly like the first day Tim had walked into Fischer's domain. Only the dialogue was different.

"Jesus, why do you do this?" Tim asked, gesturing at the gun montage. He walked around beside Fischer, and smacked him on the shoulder. "Move."

Fischer obliged, mumbling, "You know I like taking stuff apart to clean it properly." He poured Tim the last of the coffee from the thermos. "Besides, you need to feel useful. I'd hate for you to think the only thing you're good for is standing around looking stupid."

"Yeah, 'cause you've already got that role covered."

"And dammit, where were you last weekend?" Fischer grumbled, ignoring the jab. "The place was packed with turkeys prepping for turkey hunting season. I was run off my feet."

Tim stopped working and looked up. "I have a job, remember? I had to work the whole weekend. Thanks so much for reminding me. And why the hell haven't you hired anyone to replace Cecily yet?"

"Can't find anyone ugly enough."

"Then find someone to do your work and _you_ can replace her. You fit the job description."

"You are on a role this morning. Did anyone ever tell you you're a little shit?"

"All the time. It's how I'm listed in the phone book. Makes it easy for people for find me."

"Who would want to?"

Tim grinned and bent back over the table as the door to the trailer opened. Fischer turned expecting another hunting season turkey but instead found himself looking at a familiar face. He stepped over to greet the customer with a friendly 'long time, no see' and a handshake.

"Morning, gentlemen," the man replied cheerfully. Tim's head jerked up, recognizing the voice. It was Art Mullen. "I've been standing outside a while enjoying the sunshine and the pleasant conversation between the two of you." He gestured over at his Deputy and shook his head sadly, whispering commiseration to Fischer, "He's like this at the office, too. I don't think he was raised very well."

"I had my suspicions," Fischer joined in. They looked over with artificial charity at Tim who raised his eyes heavenward, turned a cheek and went back to his work.

"What brings you out on a Sunday?" Fischer asked already forming his own suspicions. "It's been a while."

"Got a gun question for you, Abe."

" _Abe_? I thought the 'A' was for _asshole_ ," Tim commented.

Fischer chose not to listen. "What do you got for me?" He reached over to take the paper that Art was carrying. "Hell I can't read this, I don't have my glasses."

"Or _absent-minded_ ," Tim continued under his breath.

Fischer glanced back and narrowed his eyes. "Why don't we talk back down at the house? It's quieter there," he suggested to Art. "And I'm pretty sure I left my glasses in the kitchen."

"Or _aggravating_."

"Sure thing," Art replied trying hard not to laugh.

" _Acerbic_."

"Nice one," Art commented with a nod to Tim.

"Thank you. _Annoying_ ," Tim kept at it, then added as they headed out the door, "Hey, and bring up some more coffee when you come back, _Abe_."

" _If_ I come back, you little shit."

"You'll come back. You want to see the puzzle finished." And the door swung shut.

Art and Fischer started their stroll down the hill toward the house, Art chuckling at the exchange.

"Don't encourage him," Fischer snarled.

"I can't believe he found this place. He must have a sarcasm radar. I'll bet he feels right at home here."

Fischer humphed.

"Either that," Art mused, "or he's just good at spotting a soft and easy target what with all that sniper training."

"Why are you here again?" Fischer grumped.

Art grinned, happy with his own marksmanship. He followed Fischer into his house, leisurely explained the case he was working on then asked his questions. Fischer looked over the information when he'd found his glasses and offered his opinion while he put on some more coffee. When they were both satisfied with their conclusions, Art folded the report and stuffed it back in his pocket with a "Thank you."

"You could've just asked Tim, you know," Fischer said. "He knows his stuff and he's more up on the newer weapons than me. He's a walking munitions encyclopedia."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. He helps me out quite a bit around here. Just, for god's sake, don't tell him that. He's an insufferable enough know-it-all as is."

Art filed that away, praise from Fischer on the subject of guns was worth something. He accepted a mug of coffee and sat at the kitchen table, leaning comfortably back in his chair. "Did you hear about the shooting down near Tennessee, the pedophile we cornered?"

"Yup."

Art nodded, casual, all the time in the world, just shooting the shit.

Fischer saw right through the act, commented, "Word around here is that it was a tricky shot. He's a natural, your boy." He sat down opposite Art and stretched his legs out.

Art nodded again. "I suppose you probably figured out it was Tim," Art said, just a bit of trade news, no importance. "Or maybe he told you?" He held Fischer's gaze innocently and the two continued their dance.

"I figured it," Fischer affirmed. "He doesn't talk much about work...other than complaining about his boss." He drummed his fingers on his mug and pondered his next words, finally he offered, carefully, "Tim came out here the weekend after. Something about it got to him. It shook him."

Art sat up and leaned forward on the table, intent. "What was it, do you know? Did he say?" He didn't bother trying to hide his eagerness for an answer.

Fischer considered the question, absently watching the vapors snaking over the surface of his coffee and disappearing up over the rim. "Don't know," he finally answered. "And good luck cracking that nut."

Art sat back, disappointed.

"Is that why you're up here on a Sunday?" Fischer queried. "Worried about your Deputy and come to wring his friends for information?" His tone wasn't accusatory, the two men were too familiar for that, and Fischer would tell what he knew if he knew anything. Art had earned his respect over the years.

"Well, maybe…partly…mostly," Art confessed. "I did want to confirm the case ballistics, too, that and ask you about Tim, that and get out of the house on a beautiful weekend morning before the wife could start the chores list."

"You should've stayed single like me."

"What was I to do? I had to choose one and get married to stop all the other girls from chasing me. It was hell."

* * *

Rachel parked in front of Josephine Hall's house and stepped out into the bright sunlight. The day had warmed up to the idea of full-on spring, and the leaves nudged out a little more, greening the street hour by hour. Rachel closed her eyes and turned to face the sun for a moment, relishing, and when she opened them again she could have sworn it was greener still.

"If you spin really fast you can get dizzy and throw up," Tim called out.

Rachel turned to the house and stuck out her tongue though she couldn't see him yet, opened the gate and headed up the walk. She found Tim on the porch. He had dragged a chair out from the living room, an old comfortable one with an upholstered back and wooden arms, and was lounging outside, enjoying the warm air and a cold beer. He dropped his feet off the railing and stood up to greet her.

She didn't feel the need to offer sympathy, he wasn't the type to take it, and she had already shown Josephine her respect by attending her funeral with Tim earlier in the week. Instead, Rachel offered a smile and her company on a Saturday afternoon.

He returned her smile with another smile but it settled uncertainly on him, looking like it had forgotten what it was supposed to do. Rachel thought he looked sad and she realized it was the first time she'd seen a soft emotion on his face. She wondered if this was a glimpse of the boy that Josephine Hall had encountered way back when and had taken under her wing. It made more sense to Rachel that way, an explanation for this odd relationship, and regardless of whether it was the truth or not, she accepted it as such because she wanted to. She liked the idea.

"She left you the house?" Rachel asked. "Is that what you said on the message?"

"She left me everything." He wagged his head. "Basically, that means the house. She didn't have much. It would have felt weird if she did."

"She liked you," Rachel declared. She knew it all along, all the evidence was there, but it still came as a surprise and she shook her head.

"You say that like it's incomprehensible," Tim responded to her surprise with a little attitude. "She had good taste."

"She had a lot of faith."

"And I owe her for that at least." He lifted the bottle in his hand. "You want a beer?"

"Sure."

He headed inside and she snagged his chair. When he came back out and saw her perched and purring like a cat in the sun in his stolen seat, he slumped his shoulders and glared at her.

"Fine, be like that," he grumped, handed her both bottles and stomped back inside.

He picked an even softer chair and dragged it out, seated himself smugly and took back his beer. The two sat in comfortable silence, the pleasant nothingness of the afternoon molding their bodies to the chairs and melting away the weight of the emotions and events of the past two months until it seemed that none of it had ever happened and it was light enough now to smile for no reason. Yet something must have happened to make it so easy for them to sit and ignore each other and think companionably about different things or nothing and that was the paradox that got Tim drifting philosophically and regretting that Monday might be different. But now was an eternity and he'd learned from war to accept these moments and grab every second and not let it go too soon.

"I feel like I've done a circle," he mused aloud after a time, sending a trickle of thought into the afternoon. "A big circle, mind you, and somehow I've ended up right back where I started. I'm not sure whether to feel really stupid or ridiculously clever." He looked sideways at her, inviting a response, and waited.

"Are you going to move in or sell?" Rachel inquired, always the pragmatist.

"My first thought? Sell. But then I got comfortable on that chair." He indicated her seat with a tilt of his bottle and took a drink in salute. "And then there's the problem of the party girl on my floor," he added cryptically and screwed up his face.

She raised her eyebrows but he kept it vague with a look of faked innocence and she didn't pry.

"And, well, I'm beginning to think she did this on purpose, leave me the house. I mean, she had two charities she worked hard for. She could've left it to one of them. And it's not like I need the money." He narrowed his eyes over at Rachel. "I think she was tying me an anchor."

Rachel dragged her chair a little closer to the railing so she, too, could prop her feet up. She settled more contentedly and decided the leaves were out farther now even than when she drove up. "I think she had three charities, Tim. She just donated it to the neediest cause."

"Piss off."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."


	27. Chapter 27

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Mrs. Brooks answered the door. She eyed Tim thoughtfully, gave a martyred sigh and said, "You want to come in and have a cup of coffee before you leave? You've got plenty of time and you certainly look like you could use it."

"Yes, ma'am," Tim replied with subdued enthusiasm. He was a tad hung-over and no point denying it with her. She always knew.

Neil was the culprit; he'd point the finger there if he had to defend himself. His friend had hauled him around Lexington on a bar tour. Each establishment was a step down from the last in a run of increasingly seedier joints with an increasingly drunker FBI agent pulling his ID and trying to pick up increasingly scarier women until finally Tim had run out of patience and dragged Neil home. They'd wound up on his porch and continued the party until one of Tim's neighbors had marched over and shut them down. A good run and lots of water had cleared most of the rust out of his gears this morning and he'd arrived at the Brooks' early hoping for a cup of Rachel's mom's strong coffee to finish the job.

"Good morning," Rachel greeted. She stopped short in the doorway to the kitchen and looked him over critically, arched an eyebrow to communicate her feelings.

"Hey," said Tim, smiling sheepishly.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Rachel asked. "Seriously, I don't mind taking him."

"Uh-uh, no way. This is my gig. I'm fine."

The other eyebrow rose to meet the first, disapproval to disbelief. "Sure you are." Rachel poured herself a cup and joined them at the table. "You look like shit."

"Language, young lady," Mrs. Brooks scolded.

Rachel rolled her eyes. "Was the training that tough or are you hung-over? I still can't believe you let them talk you into volunteering for SOG duty."

"I didn't volunteer; I was told," Tim corrected her tersely.

"If it's any consolation, I think Art's already regretting it. He was complaining about the training schedule and the on-call schedule. He thinks he's going to have to replace Dan after all with the amount of time you'll be away from the Bureau."

Tim didn't look sympathetic.

"How was the training?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I've done it all before only in double-time and for longer at a stretch and with less food."

"So you got through it okay?"

Tim huffed, tilted his head. "Please. I hardly broke a sweat."

Her eyebrows went up again. "Then why do you look so tired?"

He held her gaze a moment then looked down and studied his hands, a repeat of the shrug. "It's hard sleeping with all that going on," he answered evasively, a dismissive wave encompassing the whole time in Louisiana. "They do it on purpose, keep you tired." Tim chewed his lip, knowing it was more than that she was seeing, but grinned reassurance at her. "Got to repel out of a helicopter again. I love that shit."

"Language," Mrs. Brooks admonished a second time.

"Sorry," Tim muttered.

Nick loped into the kitchen and plunked himself in a chair. "Hey. What's up?"

"Have you brushed your teeth yet?" Rachel asked. "You two have to leave soon."

"Where are we going?" There was no way Nick was going to all the trouble of brushing his teeth on a Saturday without a good reason.

"Indiana," Tim replied.

Nick made a face usually reserved for doctor's appointments. "Indiana? Why?"

"Pacers' game," Tim explained. "It's a three-hour drive and I want to get something to eat first, so you'd better get your ass in gear. A hotdog at the arena is _not_ going to do it for me."

Nick tried not to look interested. "Pacers? You got tickets?"

"No, we're going to have to jump someone outside the stadium and steal a pair. It'd be nice to get there early to give us time to pick out our victims."

Nick's response was a sneer and a disappointed, "The Pacers, huh?" He slumped a little lower in his chair.

Rachel reached over and slapped his leg. "Do you want me to find a puddle for Tim to drop you in? Now go brush your teeth. He went to a lot of trouble to get these tickets."

"No, I didn't," Tim interjected. "I just called a friend." He pulled the tickets out of his wallet and slid them across the table, tapped them with a finger, said smugly, "And guess who they're playing tonight."

Nick leaned across the table to examine them, acting like he was doing them all a big favor and Tim turned to Rachel, asked, "Does he know how to read yet?"

"Tcha," Nick replied for her then his eyebrows shot up and he looked his age for that split second. "Grizzlies!" He jumped out of his seat and punched the air with a 'whoop'. "Come on, let's go!" he demanded, suddenly in a hurry. He ran around the table and started pulling on Tim's arm.

"Teeth!" Rachel ordered and pointed imperiously down the hall.

* * *

Nick fell asleep half an hour into the drive home. Tim didn't mind. He never had trouble staying awake and he never had trouble falling asleep either when the opportunity presented itself; it was staying asleep that he found troublesome. It was quiet on the roads at this hour, the headlights catching nothing but pavement. The steady rhythm of highway driving soothed after a busy couple of weeks, just enough alertness needed to occupy his mind and keep it away from unwanted memories but nothing to jar either, nothing other than the ticking white lines.

He was glad for the uninterrupted time to puzzle over his reaction to the tactical training. He loathed it. He loved it. He felt like a drug addict, rolling in the adrenalin rush like a dog in road kill, and he wondered if he should worry about it, wondered if he should've stuck to his guns, a poor choice of words, and kept clear of the military methods of the tactical squad. He fell easily back into his training. There was nothing they could teach him that he didn't already wear naturally. And he wondered, automatic rifle comfortable in his hands, which side he belonged to. When he arrived at the camp in Louisiana, did he take off a civilian disguise that covered the clear-to-the-bone military grunt, or did he cover himself in the martial dress only to bury deep the real Tim Gutterson, the one he sometimes felt was trying to break through these days?

He was crossing the bridge in Louisville before he realized it, only an hour from home, crossing from Indiana into Kentucky. He decided then that maybe Tim Gutterson had something in common with the city he was passing through, split down the middle by two states.

* * *

"Tim," Art called, already out of his office and halfway to the door, "since you're in so early, you win the prize duty. You're with me."

Tim hooked his jacket, barely settled yet, off the chair and followed Art out of the building. "What's up at this hour?" he asked when they were headed out of the parking lot.

"You, apparently. Why are you in at 7am? I'm all suspicious now. You looking for another job? Checking available Marshal postings maybe?"

Tim looked sideways at Art and decided the ribbing gave him the right to complain. "Actually, I'm just trying to get caught up on a shitload of paperwork back-piled from when I was down in Louisiana last week for training. Somebody – can't recall exactly who the asshole was but I'm sure it'll come to me if I ever get a coffee this morning – told me I'd better say yes to the SOG invite, remember that? I'm pretty sure you were there."

Art grimaced in acknowledgement of the truth. He'd certainly stepped into it this morning, _and_ that morning when he'd made it hard for Tim to refuse joining the tactical team. Rather than answer the accusation he made amends, pulled into the first drive-through they passed and ordered some coffee and donuts and handed them out.

"Feel better?"

"Marginally." Tim took a sip from his cup. "So where're we headed and why?"

"Tate's Creek Bridge," Art answered. "Some poor soul got shot in the back of the head last night, loosely linked to a group of white supremist assholes robbing banks and blowing shit up in my territory."

"Again, why are we involved?"

"The Marshal who came in last night, the one I had a drink with, is going to help build a case against the fellow running this Aryan Nation bullshit group. Boyd Crowder's his name."

"The Marshal or the Aryan bullshit guy?"

"The Aryan bullshit guy." Art shot an impatient look over at Tim and caught him smirking. "Grow up."

The smirk opened into a chuckle and Tim added sarcastically, "So the Marshal's the cowboy then, just so I'm clear. Wouldn't want to shoot the wrong guy."

"Yes, the Marshal's the cowboy. Raylan Givens."

"Is he from Texas?"

"Nope – Kentucky."

Tim settled lower in his seat, sipped a bit more of his coffee and dragged his fingers through his hair, "The name's familiar." He yawned extravagantly then asked, "Is he the guy that shot that guy in Miami?"

"Yeah," Art confirmed. He looked over at Tim who was now leaning drowsily against the car door, his coffee listing dangerously. "Why is it you're the only one who can say that and sound bored?"

Tim grinned, let his eyes slide shut, mused aloud, "Wonder what Dan would make of the hat?"

Art joined him with his own grin. "We'll have to ask him when we see him. Though I'm sure he'll give us an opinion without our invite. Maybe we can arrange to get them together at Molly's."

Twenty minutes later they pulled off the road by a bridge and got out, winding their way through the other vehicles to the scene. Art sent Tim to have a look at the victim while he learned what he could from the local Sheriff whose men had discovered the body. There wasn't much to say and the two ended up going over the items that had been found in a quick search of the area. The conversation ground to a halt with both men frowning when they came to a long green strap with two circles attached to it, neither able to identify it.

"I'm stumped on this one," the Sheriff shrugged.

"Looks military though, doesn't it," Art suggested. He turned his gaze over the milling law enforcement on the bridge, letting his eyes drift until he spotted his Deputy and called, "Tim," and waved him over.

"Yessir." Tim appeared at his shoulder.

Art pointed to the items on the trunk of the cruiser, tapped his pen on the unidentified strap. "Any idea what this is?"

"Huh. It's a cap from an M72 LAW," Tim replied without hesitation.

"A what?" Art asked impatiently.

"Light anti-armor."

"Tim. English."

"Rocket launcher," Tim simplified.

The Sheriff and the Chief looked at Tim then back at the item. "Huh," Art agreed then got on the phone.

A few minutes later Tim had left Art at the bridge to wait for the cowboy while he drove the Chief's car to meet Rachel in Lexington to investigate a church destroyed by a rocket launcher. Not even Tim, a firm believer in the old adage 'shit happens,' was tempted to consider it a coincidence.

* * *

 

The End

* * *

 


End file.
